Книга - Closer Encounters

Closer Encounters
Merline Lovelace


To Drew "The Riever" McDowell, this seemed like a fairly straightforward assignment: track down Tracy Brandt and find out her connection to a top secret mission. But when Drew finds her, he realizes Tracy has a mission of her own—solving the sixty-year-old murder of Trixie Halston, a mysterious, mesmerizing singer of the 1940s. In fact, Tracy's obsession with Trixie goes beyond interest—at times she actually seems to become Trixie.She goes from demure but contemporary woman to the brazen big band singer on a dime. And the scary thing is—Drew is falling hard. For both of them…






Merline Lovelace

Closer Encounters








This is for Vernon, my handsome,

curly-haired brother-in-law, who trained

at the Merchant Marine base on Catalina Island.

Like his brother—my own handsome hero—

he served his country with great distinction.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Coming Next Month




Prologue


November, 1941

The liquid notes soared through the balmy California night. They sprang from the golden slide of two trombones in perfect unison. The reedy seduction of an alto sax. The swish of a steel brush against cymbals. More than fifteen hundred couples lost to the dreamy ballad swayed cheek-to-cheek on the parquet floor of the world famous Avalon Ballroom on Catalina Island.

The singer waited for the clarinet to weep out the final bars of the bridge before stepping up to the mike. Her golden snood glittering in the light from five Tiffany chandeliers, Trixie Halston cradled the mike and poured out a throaty promise to walk alone, saving her laughter and her smiles until she could share them with her love.

She put her heart into each note, her earthy, provocative signature on each phrase. She was good at making every male in the audience think she was singing to him alone. Very good. All the while she scanned the crowd.

Johnny was here. She’d seen him come in a few moments ago, tall and curly-haired and achingly handsome in his merchant marine uniform. He’d come in response to the urgent message she’d left this afternoon. Now she’d lost him in the throng of dancers jamming the ballroom.

Her impatience mounting, she rushed the refrain and earned a quick frown from the bandleader. Smiling an apology, Trixie slowed for the last stanza. When the music faded, she signed off with her signature farewell to the men serving aboard the ships that sailed from Southern California’s busy ports.

“Good night to all you mariners. Stay safe.”

She didn’t need to glance at the note the band’s PR director had passed her to add a heartfelt postscript.

“And to the men of the USS Kallister, keep a song in your heart.”

She often singled out ships for a personal message, but this was Johnny’s ship. A munitions ship. Packed with high explosives for British and Australian forces fighting a brutal holding action in the Pacific. The United States had yet to enter the war that was engulfing the rest of the world, but even the most rabid isolationists and antiwar activists acknowledged it was just a matter of months, if not weeks. In the meantime, American ships ran a gauntlet of U-boats lurking off the coasts to supply the Allies with desperately needed supplies purchased under the lend-lease program.

Johnny hadn’t said anything about leaving L.A. last night. He couldn’t, of course. Yet Trixie guessed he must be shipping out soon. His kisses had been more urgent, his embrace more passionate, as if he wanted to imprint the feel of her, the taste of her, on his memory.

Anxious to get to him, she accepted the thunderous applause and slipped behind the stage curtains. A door led directly outdoors and onto the balcony that ringed the upper story ballroom.

Waves slapped against the rocks five stories below. The breeze carried the gay tinkle of rigging from the boats rocking at anchor in Avalon Harbor. Eager, impatient, Trixie called her lover’s name.

“Johnny?”

She heard a movement in one of the alcoves framed by the balcony’s ornate Moorish arches. With joy in her heart, she spun toward the sound.

That’s all she had. One instant of eager anticipation. Then an arm thrust out of the darkness and slammed into her shoulder. Off balance in her thick-soled platform wedgies, Trixie fell against the railing.

“Johnny!”

Another shove sent her over the rail. A scream ripping from her throat, she plummeted to the rocks below.




Chapter 1


November, present day

An early frost glittered on the naked limbs of the chestnut trees lining the quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of Washington, D.C.’s, embassy district. Commuters pouring out of the Metro stop at the corner kept their heads down against the biting wind as they hurried to work.

If any had happened to glance at the elegant three-story town house halfway down the block, they might have noticed the discreet bronze plaque beside the door. The plaque indicated the structure housed the offices of the President’s Special Envoy.

The title was held by Nick Jensen, a jet-setting restaurateur who owned a string of exclusive watering holes that catered to the rich and famous around the world. Only a handful of Washington insiders knew that title masked Jensen’s real job—director of OMEGA. The small, ultrasecret organization sent its operatives into the field only at the request of the president himself.

One of those agents had just been activated.

Andrew McDowell—code name Riever—sat at the briefing table in the high-tech control center on the top floor of the town house. Shielded from penetration by every electronic eavesdropping device known to man, the control center hummed with the pulse of OMEGA’s heartbeat.

Frowning, Drew skimmed the data projected onto the screen taking up almost the whole north wall. There wasn’t much to skim. Just a list of Internet queries seeking information on the USS Kallister. Several of the queries cited a sailing date of 15 November and requested information on the ship’s course and cargo. The problem was, that course was classified. So was the cargo in the hold of the refurbished WWII-era ship.

The rust bucket that had hauled explosives across the Pacific during the war had been torpedoed and almost sunk. Mothballed after the war, it had been refitted and recommissioned in the late ’60s to meet the escalating demands of the Vietnam conflict. Now it carried a secret cargo—so secret, every circuit at the White House situation room had popped when the vigilant watchdogs at NSA plucked this string of queries out of the billions their computers screened every day.

“What do you think, Riever?”

Drew had derived his code name from the fierce raiders who wreaked such havoc on the Anglo-Scottish border in past centuries. Like his long-ago ancestors, he was hawk-eyed and broad-shouldered enough to swing a claymore. He felt the urge to swing one now.

He’d served a hitch in the navy before being recruited by OMEGA. That was almost eight years ago, but there was enough of the sailor left in him to generate a cold, deadly fury at the possibility someone might deliberately put a U.S. vessel at risk.

“I think,” he said to his boss, “I’d better haul my ass out to the west coast and check out the female who generated these queries. What have we got on her so far?”

“Not much,” Nick Jensen replied. Tall, tanned and tawny-haired, the one-time agent with the code name Lightning nodded to the console operator. A click of a mouse brought up the digitized image of a Washington state driver’s license.

According to the DMV, Tracy Brandt was twenty-eight years old, stood five-six and weighed a respectable one hundred and thirty-two pounds. No anorexic toothpick there.

The camera must have caught Brandt by surprise. Her picture showed a brunette with startled green eyes and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“Ms. Brandt worked as a budget analyst at the Puget Sound shipyards until two weeks ago,” Lightning advised Drew. “Her supervisor says he fired her because of repeated absences from work. He also says she told him he’d be sorry for letting her go.”

Uh-oh. A defensive employee fired for cause. Talk about your basic formula for disaster.

“What about her security clearances?”

“She crunched payroll numbers. Nothing that required a top-secret clearance. Certainly nothing that would give her access to the cargo packed in the hold of the Kallister.”

Lightning drummed his fingers on the table. He knew what the Kallister was hauling. He was one of a very small, very select circle who did.

“Brandt’s address checks to an apartment complex in Puget Sound, but the electronic queries emanated from Southern California. An Internet café on Catalina Island, to be specific.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out. She used her Visa to check into the Bella Vista Inn. We got the manager to move out the folks in the room next to hers. He’s holding it for you.”

A thin smile stretched Drew’s lips. With the array of electronic gadgetry available to OMEGA agents, Ms. Brandt had better watch what she said or did, even in the privacy of her bedroom.

“We’re sending a team to Puget Sound to talk to her former coworkers,” Lightning advised. “We’ll let you know what, if anything, they turn up.”

“Roger that.”

Lightning’s nod encompassed the blonde on the other side of the table. “Denise will act as your controller here at headquarters.”

A former Secret Service agent, Denise Kowalski had pumped a bullet into the man she believed was attacking the vice president. The veep had actually been another OMEGA agent in disguise, but Denise’s cool head had so impressed everyone involved that the director at the time had requested she be transferred to OMEGA. Drew couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have as his controller.

“Let us know when you make contact with the target,” Lightning instructed. “I need to advise the president.”

“Will do.”

Shoving back his chair, Drew took the stairs to the field dress unit. The wizards in FDU fitted him with an array of sophisticated communications devices and a .45-caliber Glock they’d regripped especially for his hand. After a final session with Denise to work out a reporting schedule, he departed the town house via a hidden back exit. A half hour later he was on his way to sun-drenched Southern California.



Given the time change, it was barely noon when he landed at LAX, rented a car and drove south to Dana Point. From there it was a forty-minute hydrofoil trip to Catalina, some twenty-six miles off the coast.

The hydrofoil docked in the town of Avalon. Surrounded by steep mountains, the tiny resort snuggled up to a crescent-shaped harbor crowded with fishing boats, cabin cruisers and sleek sailboats. A tall round building with a red roof stood on a spit of rock at the north end of the harbor. Drew’s tourist map identified it as the Avalon Casino, the ’30s-era movie theater and ballroom that constituted the island’s premier tourist attraction.

He’d already been warned that vehicle traffic was restricted on Catalina. Residents depended mainly on golf carts as the primary mode of transportation. Several carts were waiting at the dock to perform taxi service, but Drew opted to heft his carryall and follow a paved walkway to the center of town. A zigzagging side street led up a steep hill to the Bella Vista Inn.

It was a Victorian whimsy set high above the bay. The wraparound porch gave a sweeping view of the hills, the harbor and the casino. Riever accepted an old-fashioned iron key and climbed a winding staircase to the second floor room labeled “Seagull Suite.”

The reason for the label became apparent the moment he stepped out onto the suite’s minuscule balcony. Gulls squawked and circled overhead. One particularly intrepid creature swooped onto the wooden railing and hopped to within a foot of Drew.

“Sorry, pal. I don’t have anything for you.”

The gull ruffled his feathers and danced another inch or two, head cocked expectantly. Like most sailors, Drew wasn’t particularly fond of gulls and the messes they deposited on gleaming steel decks. This one was nothing if not persistent, however.

“Okay, okay. Let me check out the minibar.”

He was tossing honey-roasted cashews to the gull when he spotted his target. She came out the front door of the inn and paused on the porch to zip up a pea-green windbreaker before starting down toward town. Riever smothered an oath, chucked the last of the cashews to the gull and went after her.



Tracy had no idea why she felt so compelled to take another tour of the Avalon Casino. She’d visited it yesterday, shortly after arriving on Catalina, and really didn’t have time for a repeat visit. She’d traveled to the island on very private, very wrenching business.

She should get on with it, she thought with a little ache just under her ribs. Once it was done, she’d take the ferry back to the mainland, fly home to Washington and start looking for another job.

God knew she needed one. Her savings account was empty and she had less than two hundred dollars in her checking account. Thank goodness for credit cards, although she’d already maxed out two and was nudging close to the limit on her third. The finance company had repossessed her car last month, which had made getting back and forth to work a challenge. When she still had a job to get to, that is.

Her boss should have understood, she thought indignantly. Or at least been more sympathetic to her situation. She’d worked her butt off for the guy for almost six years. And covered his butt on more than one occasion! Yet when her vacation time had run out and she’d been forced to ask for leave without pay, the bastard had told her to choose between her job and Jack.

The ache just under her ribs intensified and seeped into her heart, drop by painful drop. She couldn’t believe Jack had really left her. He’d been the only man in her life for so long. Her only friend. Her only family.

Racked by a loneliness that went bone deep, Tracy shoved her hands in the pockets of her pistachio-colored windbreaker and followed the cobbled walk that circled the harbor. November was a little too late in the year for swimmers, but a few determined sun-worshippers had spread towels on the beach and were soaking up rays. Other tourists strolled the pedestrians-only main boulevard. A blend of old Mexico and California chic, the street was lined with shops, restaurants and tall, swaying palms.

Head down, shoulders hunched, Tracy barely glanced at the shop windows. Her destination was the stucco arch at the far end of Crescent Avenue. The arch formed the entrance to another paved walk. This path led to the casino, which stood in majestic splendor at the north end of the harbor.

As Tracy had learned during her tour yesterday, the fabled Avalon Casino had nothing to do with gambling. The label derived from the Italian word for gathering place or festive area, and that’s certainly what this structure had been designed for. The spectacular first-floor theater could seat twelve hundred avid movie buffs. Twice as many couples could dance the night away in the magnificent upper-story ballroom. So brilliantly illuminated at night that it could be seen from the mainland, the Avalon Casino had lured visitors since it first opened in 1929.

Just as it lured Tracy now.

It was weird, this urge that pulled her back to the place. Almost as weird as the tune that kept drifting through her head. She’d first heard the slow, plaintive melody during the tour yesterday. So faint, she’d caught only a few bars. So sad, it had seemed to echo her personal misery.

She’d thought at first the music had drifted up to the ballroom from one of the boats moored in the harbor below. Then she decided it was probably piped in as background for the tour, designed to evoke a feeling for the poignant ballads of the big band era.

The odd thing was that no else seemed to have heard it. The rest of her group had trailed after the guide, oohing and aahing over the ballroom’s massive Tiffany chandeliers, art deco wall sconces and vast parquet floor cushioned by a resilient cork mat to ease the aching feet of four thousand jitterbuggers.

Deciding it was just her overactive imagination at work, Tracy had finished the tour and walked back toward town. To her consternation, the melody accompanied her, wandering in and out of her head as if it were lost. Only this time, snatches of lyrics came with them. Something about waiting, about gathering dreams, about walking alone until…

Until what?

Haunted by the tune, she’d stopped at an Internet café and spent dollars she couldn’t afford to Google the phrases. One query led to another, then another.

She now knew “I’ll Walk Alone” was both the title and the theme of a big band hit sung by all the great female singers of the late ’30s and early ’40s, including Billie Holiday, Dinah Shore and Trixie Halston—who’d died in a tragic accident right here at the Avalon Casino.

What she didn’t know was why she couldn’t get the song out of her head!

It was there now, calling to her, beckoning to her, luring her like the sirens of old had lured unwary sailors to their death. She could hear it as she stood in line at the box office to purchase a tour ticket.

“You just made it.”

Tracy blinked, sure the woman in the old-fashioned glass booth had spoken to her. Her lips had moved. Her smile invited a reply. But the music had drowned her out.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said you just made it. The last tour of the day starts in two minutes.”

Tracy slid her charge card through the opening in the glass and held her breath until it went through. She hadn’t maxed this one out yet, thank goodness. She signed the slip, took her ticket and turned—only to collide with the man in line behind her.

“Sorry!”

“No problem.”

Too absorbed by the haunting melody to note more than an easy smile and gold-flecked hazel eyes, she nodded absently and joined the tourists now streaming into the casino.

Yesterday, the lobby’s solid black-walnut wall panels and glorious red-arched ceiling had taken her breath away. Today she could barely contain her impatience as the tour guide explained the casino’s history and unique engineering. Once inside the theater, not even the immense proscenium arch and murals glittering with silver and gold foil could hold her attention. Nor could the booming notes of the Page pipe organ that had added drama to the silent movies shown in the theater drown out the song inside Tracy’s head.

The music was louder now, the lyrics more distinct. She’d printed out a copy after Googling them up yesterday, and knew them almost by heart. Each note was a sigh, each word a promise. They called to her, urging her upstairs to the ballroom.

Her heart pounded as the tour guide led the group to the set of spiral ramps so many eager couples had ascended during the swing era. The guide took the ramps slowly, in deference to the older members in the group, and paused at the lounge halfway up to let them rest and view the black-and-white photos of the bands that had played the Avalon Ballroom.

Tracy’s pulse kicked up another notch as she skimmed over photos of bands led by Artie Shaw, Harry James and Russ Morgan. Suddenly, her breath stopped in her throat.

There! That was Kenny Jones swinging a baton in front of his orchestra. And the woman at the microphone. Trixie Halston. Tracy recognized the singer from the photos she’d pulled up yesterday. As she stared at the slender chanteuse with her dark hair styled in a peekaboo sweep, the music inside her head grew louder, the notes more urgent.

Determined to get the damned song out of her head, Tracy slipped away from the group and hit the next incline. Her breath came faster with each step. Her blood thundered in her ears.

She took the last ramp at a near run and burst into the cavernous ballroom. The music swelled to an angry crescendo, pulling her across the parquet floor, past the empty stage and through one of the Moorish arches onto the balcony.

Eyes wild, heart hammering, Tracy leaned over the stucco wall ringing the balcony. Waves foamed against the rocks below. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, leaving the sea looking cold and gray. Like death, she thought, gripped by a sudden, icy panic.

Panic turned to terror as an unseen force thumped her hard between the shoulder blades.




Chapter 2


“I’ve got you!”

Fisting his hand in the folds of his target’s pea-green windbreaker, Drew yanked her backward. She fell against him. Hard. Her butt slammed his thigh. Her hipbone gouged into his groin.

Grunting, he held on to her until she righted herself. But he wasn’t too happy with Ms. Brandt when she whirled around and stared at him with wild eyes. Still feeling the imprint of that hip, he released her.

“What the hell were you doing, leaning over the rail like that?”

His snarl drained what little color she had left in her face. She shrank away and bumped up against the rail again. Cursing, Drew got another grip on her windbreaker.

“Hey! Careful! It’s a long way down.”

That penetrated, thank God. Locking both hands on his wrist, she threw a frantic glance over her shoulder. A cold breeze set the ends of her mink-brown hair to dancing. Drew felt its bite as a series of shudders wracked the woman.

When the shivers subsided, she blinked several times and eased upright. Drew maintained his grip, just in case. It was a long way down and Tracy Brandt’s face was still pretty much the color of her jacket.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I…I think so.”

Drew didn’t release her until she put a good three feet between her and the ledge.

“What happened?”

“I got a little dizzy.” She rubbed her temple with a shaking hand. “The music…It was so loud.”

“Music?”

“You didn’t hear it?” The wild look came back into her eyes. “The melody? The lyrics?”

He hadn’t heard anything but the drum of his blood after he’d watched her slip away from the group. She’d acted so furtive his hunting instincts had kicked in big-time and the thrill of the chase had thrummed in his ears. He could hardly admit that to his prey, however.

“No, I didn’t hear any music.” Wondering if he were dealing with a nutcase here, Drew asked warily, “Do you still hear it?”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she cocked her head and listened. Her intense concentration gave him ample time to compare Ms. Brandt in the flesh to the Ms. Brandt captured by the cameras of the Washington driver’s license division.

The eyes were the same misty green. The freckles were still there, a faint spackling across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Her hair was longer than in the photo. A tumble of dark brown, the silky mass just brushed her shoulders. Although the features were essentially the same, their setting had changed. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her face appeared thinner. Much thinner.

So did the rest of her. Her license had tagged her at one thirty-two. She didn’t look anywhere close to that. The loose windbreaker concealed most of her upper torso, but he’d had plenty of opportunity to observe the lower portion as he’d trudged up the ramps behind her. Her jeans hugged a tight, trim rear. Her slender thighs looked as though they’d wrap perfectly around a man.

Too bad he wouldn’t get the chance to test that supposition. For one thing, Tracy Brandt was his target. For another, the woman heard voices in her head.

Or had. Apparently she wasn’t hearing them any longer. Looking uncomfortable, she admitted as much and fumbled for an explanation of her erratic behavior.

“I guess I’m just a little stressed.”

Losing a job would stress anyone, Drew thought. So would messing with highly classified information you weren’t supposed to have access to.

A loud rumble from the vicinity of her stomach interrupted his thoughts and drew an embarrassed laugh from her.

“Or maybe it’s just hunger. I missed lunch.”

She’d just handed Drew the perfect opening. “Then we’d better get you something to eat.”

“Thanks, but you’re on the tour. I’ll just head back down on my own and—”

“Those ramps are steep. You might get wobbly again. I’ll walk down with you.”

“Really, I’m fine. You don’t have to cut short your tour on my account.”

Ignoring her protests, he took her elbow and steered her back through the Moorish arch. The rest of the group was just entering the ballroom. The guide looked distinctly displeased with their temporary absence.

“I must ask you not to wander off on your own like that.”

“My friend felt dizzy and needed air,” Drew explained calmy. “I’m going to take her down. Thanks for the very informative tour.”

His grip remained firm as they exited the ballroom. A fierce satisfaction hummed through him. He couldn’t remember the last time a prey had fallen into his hands so easily and conveniently.

“My name’s Andrew, by the way. Andrew McDowell. Drew to my friends.”

“Tracy Brandt.”

“Where’s home, Tracy?”

“Puget Sound, Washington. For now, anyway.”

Drew kept it casual. “You’re moving?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

He cocked an eyebrow, but she dodged the implied question with a small shrug. “It’s a long story. Not worth boring a stranger with.”

Baby, you’ve got that wrong! Hiding a sardonic smile, Drew helped her negotiate the sloping ramps. Once outside, he released her elbow. Her cheeks were still pale, making the shadows under her eyes stand out in stark relief, but she seemed to revive in the brisk salt air.

“Do you like seafood?” Drew asked.

She angled her head and gave him a smile. A real one, he saw, surprised at the way it transformed her face.

“What kind of a question is that to ask someone from Puget Sound?”

“My mistake. The restaurant at the inn where I’m staying supposedly does a great grilled tilapia. At least according to the manager of the Bella Vista.”

“You’re staying at the Bella Vista? So am I.”

“There you go, then. We’re neighbors. Want to give the tilapia a shot or have you already tried it?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Tracy hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. She couldn’t afford to rack up a bill at the inn’s fancy restaurant. The only reason she’d stayed at the Bella Vista was because it offered a modified American plan that included a continental breakfast. Unfortunately, she’d been too wired this morning to down more than coffee and half a blueberry muffin. She needed to eat something soon or she’d make a fool of herself—again!—by keeling over at this man’s feet.

“I’m not really dressed for a nice restaurant. I saw a place out on the pier that serves fish and chips. We could try that.”

“The pier it is,” he said easily.



Catalina’s Green Pier jutted into the harbor from midpoint on Avalon’s narrow, sandy beach. It got its name from the green-painted structure perched in the center of the pier. According to a tourist brochure Tracy had read, the wooden building, with its dazzling white trim and distinctive clock tower, was the island’s second most recognizable landmark after the casino. Originally a fish market, it now housed the official weigh station for sport fishermen, souvenir shops and eateries.

To Tracy’s secret relief, her escort insisted on paying for their meal. They ate in the open air, carrying their soft drinks and red plastic baskets to a long wooden table with an unobstructed view of the circular harbor and the town that hugged it. As advertised, the fish was crunchy on the outside, deliciously moist and flaky inside. The French fries and hush puppies were steaming hot. Tracy burned the inside of her mouth on the first bite, yet had to fight to keep from scarfing down another.

“This is nice,” Drew commented, his gaze skimming over the boats rocking gently on the swells.

“Yes, it is.”

Those scary moments on the casino balcony faded as Tracy munched on her hush puppy and drank in the scene. The late afternoon shadows had deepened into an early evening dusk. Lights were beginning to twinkle on in the shops and houses that stair-stepped up the steep hills surrounding the bay. The breeze had died and the temperature hovered at a comfortable sixty-five or so. The scene was so calm, so idyllic. Just as Jack had described it.

“Very nice,” she murmured with a hitch in her voice that matched the one in her heart.

Dunking a fry in ketchup, she pushed it around and waited for the ache to pass. When she looked up, she found Drew watching her with a question in his eyes.

They were really sexy eyes, Tracy decided, a palette of gold and brown and green framed by lashes the same color as the mahogany streaks in his dark hair. She liked the face they were set in, too. She wouldn’t qualify it as handsome, exactly. More rugged-looking, with a strong chin and tanned skin that suggested he spent more time outdoors than in. With his broad shoulders and lean, athletic body, he didn’t look the type to go in for salon tanning sessions.

Not that Tracy was any judge of type. Except for Jack, her relationships with the male species had been brief and somewhat less than satisfactory.

The thought made the ache sharper, until it lanced into her like vicious little shards. It took an act of sheer will to respond to Drew’s silent query.

“A friend of mine used to come here years ago. He fell in love with the place and talked all the time about coming back.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“I guess…I guess he just never got around to it.”

She couldn’t talk about Jack. The hurt was too raw, too private. Scanning the harbor, she latched on to a sleek white yacht as a change of topic.

“Look at that. What do you suppose something like that costs?”

“More than either of us could afford.”

The drawled response piqued Tracy’s curiosity. All she knew about this man was his name and that he had really sexy eyes. She glanced down and saw he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. That didn’t mean anything, of course, but it gave her the incentive to pry a little.

“Where’s home for you, Drew?”

“I live in Virginia, about an hour south of D.C.”

“What do you do?”

“My father-in-law and I own and operate a chain of shops that specialize in classic car restoration.”

Well, that settled the question of his marital status. Tracy was battling an absurd sense of disappointment when her dinner companion added a clarification.

“Actually, Charlie is my ex-father-in-law. I met his daughter some years back. I was in the navy then, and it took Joyce all of eight months to decide being a sailor’s wife wasn’t her thing. Not this particular sailor’s wife, anyway.”

She didn’t detect any hurt in his crooked grin. Only a self-deprecating chagrin.

“I take it the divorce didn’t damage your relationship with your wife’s father.”

“Just the opposite. Charlie was as relieved as Joyce when we split. He saw how upset she got when I had to pull sea duty.”

Upset wasn’t quite the right word for it, Drew thought wryly. His high-strung, temperamental wife had pitched a world-class fit every time he’d had to pack his sea bag. Short of going AWOL, all Drew could do was promise to leave the navy when his hitch was up.

Joyce had decided to leave him instead. Drew had never admitted it to anyone, but he’d been every bit as relieved as his father-in-law when she’d filed for divorce.

“Charlie and I always got along well,” he said with a shrug. “So well he asked me to join him in his business when I left the navy.”

Their partnership had proved far more enduring and satisfying than his marriage. Drew had already been recruited by OMEGA and needed a base of operations that would allow him to come and go at will. Charlie had been happy to turn over most of the traveling to classic car conventions and searches for rare parts to his partner.

Drew knew Charlie suspected his business partner did more than shop for parts during those travels, but the old man had never asked about the extended absences. The fact that Drew had helped grow Classic Motors, Inc. into a nationwide chain of highly profitable shops might have had something to do with Charlie’s reticence.

“What about you?” he asked, getting back to the business that had sent him on this particular trip. “What do you do?”

“I worked as a budget analyst for a defense contractor in Puget Sound until recently.”

He waited, wondering if she’d admit she’d been fired. When she didn’t, he applied the screws.

“Why did you leave?”

“It was, uh, time to look for something better.” With a show of nonchalance, she nodded to the sleek white yacht. “Who knows, maybe I’ll land something that pays enough to afford one of those.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, “who knows?”

Drew had spent almost six years as an undercover operative. In that time he’d taken down his share of drug dealers, black marketers and other scum who trafficked in human misery. He’d learned the hard way that greed had some ugly faces. Real ugly. Even the so-called religious fanatics who blew themselves up or bombed abortion clinics in the name of God were motivated by a sadistic hunger for dominance and power.

In Drew’s considered opinion, the bastards who sold their country’s secrets were among the worst of the lot. Their avarice put the lives of countless innocent citizens at risk. He had no evidence Tracy Brandt intended to sell classified information. He still hadn’t ascertained what, if any, information about the USS Kallister and its cargo she may have acquired.

But he would, he vowed. He would.

Infusing his voice with a sympathy he was far from feeling, he tightened the screws a little more.

“It’s tough to be out of work, but you can’t let it get to you. Or make you do something crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“Like up there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the round casino building now lit up like a beacon. “On that balcony.”

Her jaw dropped. Goggle-eyed, she gaped at him for several seconds. “You think…? You think I intended to jump?”

“Kind of looked that way from where I was standing.”

“I had no intention of jumping!” Indignation put spots of red in her cheeks and lit sparks in her green eyes. “I told you, it was the music…. It made feel me dizzy and disoriented.”

“Right. The music.”

Her flushed deepened to a rosy brick. “Or, as I said, I might just have been hungry. We’ve taken care of that problem, so you don’t have to worry that I’ll jump off the pier and you’ll have to dive in after me.”

“No need to get riled. I was just trying to help.”

“Yes, well…Thanks.” Her feathers thoroughly ruffled, she swung off the bench, scooped up her plastic basket and tossed it in the trash. “And thanks for dinner. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of yours.”

“I’m done,” Drew replied, swinging a leg over the bench. “I’ll walk back to the inn with you.”

“I’m not going back to the inn. Not just yet. Have a nice time on Catalina, Mr. McDowell.”



Drew trailed her to an Internet café tucked between two souvenir shops. Ignoring the coffee bar, she made a beeline for a computer and inserted a credit card. Mere moments later she was hunched over the screen and clicking away on the keyboard.

Keeping her in his line of sight, Drew chose an isolated bench well away from the glow of shop windows and extracted his cell phone. It was one of those ultrathin, ultraexpensive models that could do everything but flush the toilet. Drew figured the wizards who worked for Lightning’s wife, Mackenzie Blair, had probably packed it with enough souped-up circuitry to do that, too, if necessary.

Lounging on the bench like a patient tourist waiting for his souvenir-hunting spouse, he pressed a quick-dial button and was instantly connected via secure satellite to OMEGA headquarters. Standard protocol required Drew to be identified via voiceprint and code name before his controller responded. A recent case worked by a fellow operative, Jordan Colby, had added an iris scan to the process.

“This is Riever,” he said, aiming the phone’s built-in camera at his right eye.

Drew waited for another second or two until Denise Kowalski got the green light indicating the caller’s iris scan and voiceprint matched those on file for Drew McDowell.

“I read you.” Her image appeared on the phone’s screen. “How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. I’m in place and have established contact with the target. Matter of fact, we just had dinner together.”

The former Secret Service agent raised a sandy eyebrow. “That’s fast work, Riever, even for you.”

“The pace picked up in a hurry right after I got here.”

Keeping an eye on the dark head bent over the computer, he relayed the events of the afternoon and evening.

“She insists she wasn’t going to jump, but it’s hard to take the word of someone who hears voices. Check her medical records for me, will you? See if there’s anything else going on in her head besides singing.”

“Will do.”

“We also need to get linked into the Chocolate Cyberchip Café. She’s in there now, plugging away.”

“Already done. That’s the same site she used yesterday to make all those queries about the Kallister. Hang loose while I check with comm to see if they’re picking up her signals.”

Denise was back a few moments later.

“Comm has her. She’s tapped into one of those online music sites. Have a listen.”

Drew heard the slide of a trombone followed by a few bars of a reedy sax. Then a female crooned into his ear. Her voice was low and throaty and seductive, like a golden ribbon spooling out onto black satin sheets. Drew almost got hard just listening to her.

“Who the heck is that?”

“Comm says the singer is Trixie Halston. The song is one she recorded in the early forties. ‘I’ll Walk Alone.’ Hmm, the target is playing the same song over again. Wonder why she’s so fascinated with it?”

“Good question. See what you can find out about the singer.” A sudden movement had Drew signing off. “The target’s moving. I’ll contact you later.”

“Roger that.”

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he followed Tracy up to the inn. To his surprise, he could still hear the echo of that smoky, sexy contralto.

Okay, so maybe his target wasn’t a couple of bricks shy of a full load. Maybe the song had just stuck in her head, like it had in his. The melody was liquid and smooth, the lyrics simple and repeatable. Drew was humming them under his breath when Tracy disappeared inside the inn.

Once she was inside her room, Drew entered his. His first order of business was to attach a small, almost transparent disk on the wall between their two rooms. The communications gurus had assured him the minuscule listening device could pick up a sneeze on a street corner in Gdansk.

When he screwed a wireless receiver into his ear, Drew heard no sneezes, Polish or otherwise, just the sound of gushing water punctuated by a series of irate mutters.

“Jerk!”

A tap squealed. The water gushed faster.

“How could he think I was going to jump?”

Another squeal, followed by another mutter.

“Do I look that pathetic?”

No, Drew wouldn’t classify her as pathetic. Weird, maybe. Suspect, certainly. Fingering the earpiece, he adjusted the volume. A bird’s-eye view of Avalon’s twinkling lights lured him out onto the balcony.

Leaning his elbows on the rail, he listened to the splash that heralded his target’s immersion in one of the inn’s old-fashioned claw foot tubs. Her long, drawn-out ahhh evoked images of bubbles and rising steam. The squish of something wet and spongy evoked another image altogether.

Drew could almost see a wet washcloth sliding over Tracy Brandt’s breasts and belly. Despite the cool night air, he started to sweat. From what he’d seen of her under that baggy windbreaker, the woman came equipped with a nice set of curves.

He’d worked his way into a serious consideration of those curves when a squawk jerked him from Tracy’s bathroom to his night-wrapped balcony. The gull landed less than a foot from his elbow.

“Hey, fella. You’re out late.”

Yeah, the bird’s cocked head seemed to say. So feed me.

“Okay, okay. Just hold on to your tail feathers.”

Halfway to the minibar he heard a scream from the next room. Drew had charged for the door even before his supersensitive mike telegraphed the crack of breaking glass.




Chapter 3


Straining to pick up some sound from inside the target’s room, Drew rapped his knuckles on her door.

“Tracy?”

He waited a beat, his mind conjuring a dozen different scenarios, and rapped again.

“Tracy, it’s Drew.”

He was about to put his shoulder to the oak panel when the lock snicked and the door opened a crack. Cool air whooshed out, then a pale face topped by a towel turban appeared.

“Are you okay?” Drew asked sharply.

“I…I…”

The fumbling response upped his pucker factor another few notches. What the hell had she done?

“The walls are thin,” he said with only slight exaggeration. They were thin—especially with a high-tech listening device transmitting every decibel of sound.

“I heard a scream and the sound of glass breaking. Are you all right?”

She put a shaking hand to her temple. “I think so.”

“What happened?”

“I, uh, dropped something.”

She scrunched her forehead, as if trying to remember what. Worried that she’d fallen and whapped her head, Drew softened his tone.

“Something’s obviously shaken you. Why don’t you unhook the chain and tell me about it?”

She peered through the crack for another second or two, still confused, still hesitant. While she debated, Drew angled his body to one side and surreptitiously removed his earpiece. One way or another, he was getting in to that room.

“Let me in, Tracy. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

The combination of brisk command and gentle persuasion produced results. The door closed, the chain rattled and Drew stepped inside.

Her rooms were smaller than his. A good deal chillier, too, with the breeze blowing in through the open windows. The view was incredible, but Drew spared the brilliantly illuminated casino framed by those windows barely a glance. His quick, intense scrutiny swept over a combination bedroom/sitting area done in brass and flowery chintzes. He spotted no bloodstains, no overturned furniture, no shattered windows.

The bathroom, on the other hand, looked as though a tornado had just roared through it. Wet towels were strewn everywhere. The entire contents of a cosmetic bag had been dumped on the counter. Glistening glass shards decorated the floor tiles.

Drew eyed them, his gut tightening. Had she dropped that drinking glass by accident? Or was the breakage deliberate, a prelude to slit wrists?

His thoughts grim, he faced the target. She appeared to be recovering from whatever had hit her. The dazed look was gone, anyway. Playing with the belt of her lemon-colored chenille robe, she offered an embarrassed smile.

“The mirror got all clouded with steam. I used my sleeve to clean it and knocked the drinking cup off the counter.”

That accounted for the shattered glass. Not the cry that preceded it.

“Did something startle you? I could swear I heard you scream just before the glass broke.”

“Was I that loud? I thought I just let out a small squeak.”

Small was in the ear of the beholder. Wondering if the ultrasensitive listening device had made him overreact, Drew shrugged.

“Maybe it was just a squeak. But something must have generated it.”

“Something did.” Her smile went from embarrassed to chagrined. “After I cleared away the steam, I got a good look at this face in the mirror.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t tell me you can’t see the bags under these eyes! And this hair.”

Tugging off the turban, she raked her hand through the strands of dark mink.

“Look at it! As straight as a board. Not the slightest hint of a wave or a roll. I have to get my hands on some bobby pins.”

Bobby pins? Drew had a hazy memory of his grandmother with her head hard-wired into tight curls, but had no idea women still stabbed those sharp little implements into their scalps.

He found Brandt’s sudden determination to acquire some reassuring, though. If she was so worried about her appearance, odds were she hadn’t been planning to slash her wrists. Judging by the angry mutters he’d heard just before she’d climbed into the tub, she evidently hadn’t intended to jump off the ballroom balcony, either.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t suicidal. Just strange. And mercurial as hell. For a few moments there on the pier, her shoulders had drooped with weariness and sadness shadowed her eyes. Now she seemed gripped by a sort of quivering energy.

“Do you want to go with me?” she asked eagerly.

“Go where?”

“To a drugstore, to buy some bobby pins.”

“Now?”

She flipped the ends of her wet hair. “I have to do something with this floor mop. Besides, the night’s young. How about I tie on a kerchief and we see what’s playing at the Roxy? Or grab a stool at the soda fountain and split a dusty miller? It’s been ages since I dug a spoon into one of those!”

Drew didn’t have a clue what a dusty miller was, but he’d dig a spoon into one just to keep his target talking.

“Sure, I’ll go with you.”

“Great! I’ll get dressed and meet you downstairs. Ten minutes?”

Drew let himself out, wondering if Ms. Brandt had popped a few pills or snorted something before getting into the tub. She was wired. Most definitely wired.

Her eagerness to get out and have some fun stirred more than a few unpleasant memories. Drew’s young wife used to meet him at the door when he dragged in after twelve or fourteen hours performing deck drills. Joyce had spent the day cooped up in what the navy euphemistically referred to as junior enlisted housing and swore she had to get out or she’d go stir-crazy. So Drew had traded his uniform for civvies and duly escorted her to a mall or a movie or to the on-base club. Most often to the club.

Consequently Drew had to work to dredge up a smile when Tracy floated down the stairs. She appeared to have no problem with her smile. It was wide and sparkling and hit him with the same wallop it had earlier. Alive with eagerness, she hooked her arm through his.

“Let’s go. I can’t wait to dive into that chocolate sundae.”

Assuming that was the dusty miller, Drew escorted her out of the inn and down the winding walkway to town. He couldn’t quite get a handle on what was so different about her. Maybe it was the hair, tucked into a roll at the base of her neck and accented with a headscarf tied in a jaunty bow. Or the high color in her cheeks. Or her darting gaze that seemed to want to take everything in at once.

“The town sure is dead tonight,” she commented, clutching Drew’s arm. “Where are all the cars?”

“The streets are too narrow for vehicles. Most everyone gets around in golf carts.”

Which she should have known after two days on the island. Puzzling over the inconsistency, Drew let her tug him toward a shop with an old-fashioned Drugstore sign illuminated in green and pink neon.

“Here it is, right where I remember it.” Eagerly, she reached for the door latch. Excitement bubbled in her voice. “Come on, let’s…”

One step into the shop she stopped dead. Confusion blanked her face.

“Tracy? Something wrong?”

“It’s all changed,” she said in dismay. “Where’s the soda fountain?”

Drew skimmed a glance around the small shop. The stressed wood flooring and framed sepia pictures of Catalina in earlier decades suggested the place had been there a while, but the glass shelves crammed with the usual mix of medications, beauty aids and household items were sleek and strictly utilitarian.

“If there was a soda fountain here, it probably went out with the Edsel.”

“Edsel Who?” she asked distractedly.

“The Edsel was a car.” Drew wondered how many times he’d had to give the same explanation to folks outside the tight circle of classic car buffs. “A real bomb when it came out in the late ’50s, but a collector’s dream right now.”

“Mmm.”

Obviously disinterested in Ford’s most famous flop, she meandered down the center aisle. Her gaze roamed the shelves, lingering on different objects. Searching, Drew assumed, for the illusive bobby pins. Halfway down the aisle she stopped in front of a carousel of lipsticks.

“Look at all these colors!”

She plucked out a tube for a closer look just as a teenaged clerk rounded the end of the aisle.

“That’s the new Caribbean Calypso line,” the clerk announced. “Just came in yesterday. Here, try the Juicy Jamaica Red,” she suggested. “It’s totally awesome. Tastes good, too. Like papaya or melon or something.”

Drew stood to one side while the teen painted a slash of crimson on the back of Tracy’s hand.

“Ooh, I love it. I’ll take it. And a package of bobby pins.”

“They’re right here. We’ve had a real run on them since that episode of Sex and the City, when Carrie Bradshaw stuck dozens of black pins in her blond hair.”

Drew must have missed that episode—along with every other. Feeling totally out it, he waited while Tracy rummaged through a dizzying array of brushes, combs and hairclips. He got through the tough business of choosing between crinkle style and straight-backed pins okay, but was forced to retreat to the magazine rack while she debated the tough choices of face powder, mascara, eye shadow and lip liner.

After that, she hit the perfume counter. Forehead scrunched in concentration, she sniffed one tester after another while Drew studied her from behind the pages of Motor Trends magazine.

Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged her as a woman who took perfume and war paint so seriously. Granted, their initial meeting had been dramatic and brief. He still had a lot to learn about Ms. Tracy Brandt…including her interest in the USS Kallister, he reminded himself grimly.

Forcing himself to be patient, he waited until she’d spritzed on a sample of something called Midnight Gardenia and added a small vial to her other purchases. With the delight of a chocoholic who’d been turned loose in a candy store, she carted her selections to the register. Her delight turned to shock after the clerk rang them up.

“That’ll be twenty-nine eighteen.”

Her jaw dropping, Tracy gaped at the girl. “Twenty-nine dollars?”

“And eighteen cents,” the teen confirmed, twisting the register’s digital screen around to display the total.

“That can’t be right.”

“Maybe I scanned something twice.”

While the clerk peered at the summary on the computerized screen, Tracy dug into the plastic bag and extracted several items. She turned them over and over, searching for the price.

“No wonder you got it wrong. These don’t have price tags on them.”

“The prices are all bar-coded. Look, this Juicy Jamaica Red scans up at six ninety-nine.”

“Seven dollars for lipstick?”

The teen shrugged. “We have some products left over from the winter line on sale. Want to see those?”

The prospect of another protracted round of searching and sniffing had Drew reaching for his wallet. “That’s okay. We’ll take what we have here.”

“Not at those prices,” Tracy protested.

Suspecting her out-of-work status had a lot to do with the indignant protest, he tossed a ten and a twenty on the counter.

“Price is no object when it comes to making a pretty woman prettier.”

The gallantry was clumsy and heavy-handed but got them out of the drugstore. His companion was still muttering over the cost of the lipstick when they walked out into the night.

The streets had been empty of all but a few tourists before. They were deserted now. As Drew steered Tracy toward the corner, the shop windows behind them went dark. A few seconds later, the souvenir shop across the street dimmed its lights.

“Are we under a blackout?” Tracy asked, clutching her purchases as she glanced around.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Guess they’re just rolling up the streets for the night.”

“It’s only a little after nine!”

“We’re a few weeks ahead of the main tourist season. Avalon probably gets livelier then.”

“How strange,” she murmured. “And sad. Lights used to blaze here all night long.”

“Yeah, that’s what the tour guide said.”

According to the guide who’d escorted them through the casino this afternoon, Avalon had once rocked. When chewing gum magnate William Wrigley bought Catalina Island in 1919, he made it a training camp for his Chicago Cubs and built a field to match the dimensions of Wrigley Field in Chicago. The Cubs spring training attracted hosts of eager spectators and sportscasters. Among them was a young Ronald “Dutch” Reagan, who zipped back across the channel in 1931 to take the screen test that changed his profession and his life.

Zane Gray set one of his novels on the island and built a home high on one of the hills above Avalon. Sportsmen like Theodore Roosevelt used to troll the deep blue waters for marlin and sailfish. Betty Grable, Cary Grant, John Wayne and friends regularly yachted over from L.A. to frolic at the great hotels and bars.

Along with the rich and famous came thousands of ordinary folks. Always a shrewd businessman, William Wrigley built the Avalon Casino to lure movie buffs and hepcats. They ferried over by the boatload to view first-run films in the casino’s magnificent theater or dance until dawn in the upstairs ballroom.

All that activity came to a screeching halt two days after Pearl Harbor. Declaring the island a military zone, the government shut down all commercial boat traffic. For four years Catalina served as a training site for the merchant marines. The only civilians allowed on the island were the residents who provided essential services to the base.

After the war, Catalina and the city of Avalon never quite regained their glitter and glamour. The big band era was over. The Cubs moved their spring training to Florida. Vastly expanded air travel allowed Hollywood’s elite to jet down to Acapulco or over to Hawaii to play. A few stars still sailed across the channel to party on their sleek yachts, but Natalie Wood’s tragic drowning seemed to signal the end of that era, too.

Now the town catered primarily to families who used it for a weekend escape and the cruise ship passengers who thronged to the shops during the day and sailed away at dusk.

“It’s nice like this,” Drew commented. “No crowds, no hassle.”

It was also very convenient. He and Tracy were two strangers thrown together in relative isolation. Playing to that theme, he made a casual suggestion.

“Since it looks like our dirty miller is out…”

“Dusty miller,” she corrected glumly.

“Since our dusty miller is apparently out, how about a drink?”

That brightened her up. “A drink sounds good.”

“Shall we find a bar or go back to the inn and enjoy the view?”

“Let’s go back to the inn.” With a last look around the darkened streets, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “We’ll have a private party.”



Drew formulated his game plan on the walk back to the Bella Vista. First a drink. Then some idle conversation. Another drink. A casual mention of the ships that sailed from the busy ports across the channel. A not-so-casual reference to the USS Kallister.

At the reminder of his mission, his muscles tightened. The involuntary movement pressed Tracy’s arm into his side. She slanted him a quick glance, then snuggled closer. The feel of her high, firm breast against his arm did a serious number on his concentration. The scent that tickled his senses didn’t help, either.

Midnight gardenia. It fit her, he decided. Her skin was as smooth and creamy as the waxy petals. And like some exotic, night-blooming plant, she’d opened to reveal a showy flower.

So showy, she couldn’t wait to experiment with her purchases. Once back at her room, she waggled a hand toward the minibar.

“Do the honors, will you? I just want to powder my nose and put on some lipstick.”

“What’ll you have?” Drew asked as she sailed for the bathroom.

“Scotch.”

“On the rocks?”

“Why water down good hooch?”

While she wrestled with plastic packaging in the bathroom, Drew moved fast. His first objective was the purse she’d deposited on the bed. The wallet held her driver’s license, a couple of credit cards and less than ten dollars in cash. No scribbled phone numbers, no cryptic notes and only one picture of Tracy and an older man grinning at the camera. Her father? Grandfather?

Making a mental note to have Denise run her family history, Drew flipped open her cell phone. The call log showed no calls received or transmitted since she’d arrived on Catalina yesterday.

He had time to give the small suitcase sitting on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed only a quick look. She obviously wasn’t intending a long stay. The weekender contained a neatly folded sweater, a cotton blouse, tan twill slacks and several pairs of cotton panties.

The thump of plastic cartons hitting the bathroom wastebasket announced Tracy’s imminent return. Diverting to the minibar, he poured two miniatures of scotch into plastic cups and carried them to the French doors. He doubted she would want to go out onto the balcony after her dizzy spell this afternoon, but the view from inside the room served his purpose just as well.

He could see the faint glow of lights from a cargo ship steaming up the San Pedro Channel. His opening conversational gambit was right there in front of him. Planning his segue from the cargo ship to the Kallister, he was ready when Tracy emerged from the bathroom.

“Now I feel more like the real me.”

Drew just about dropped the plastic cups. If this was the real Tracy Brandt, all it had taken was a little color to bring her out. The bright red lipstick drew his gaze instantly to full, ripe lips. Subtle shading deepened her eyes to a mysterious jungle-green. Pancake makeup eradicated the dark circles under them. He had no idea what she’d done to her skin to make it look so luminescent, but he had to battle the urge to stroke a knuckle down the smooth curve of her cheek.

Her hair was different, too. She’d taken off her headscarf and released the thick, silky mass from its tight roll. Still damp, it now fell in unruly waves to her shoulders.

The change went more than skin-deep, though. Drew was still trying to figure it out when she raised her plastic cup.

“Here’s to you and here’s to me. May we never disagree. But if we do…”

Drew hooked an eyebrow and waited for the punch line. He’d heard variations of this toast that would make his old buddies in the navy blush. Tracy kept it clean, ending with a merry laugh.

“Here’s to me.”

She tossed back a healthy swallow, closed her eyes and let the scotch slide down her throat. When her lids fluttered up, she stared at the remaining liquid in near awe.

“That’s prime hooch.”

Was retro slang the new thing? Tracy certainly seemed to be into it.

“That’s the second time you used the term hooch,” Drew remarked. “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

Shrugging, she took another sip. “Hooch, booze, giggle water. Whatever name you pin on this stuff, it sure goes down smooth. This Juicy Jamaica Red gives it a different flavor, though. Sort of smoky and fruity at the same time.”

She ran her tongue over her upper lip, testing, tasting, then moved to the lower. Drew followed her progress with a sudden tightening in his chest.

Damn! Did the woman have any idea how arousing that slow, deliberate swipe was? Probably, since she tipped him a smile that hovered between teasing and provocative.

“Want a taste?”

Drew’s ribs squeezed tighter. Telling himself this was all in the line of duty, he bent his head.




Chapter 4


The kiss was soft and warm and wonderful. Tracy floated on it, enjoying the sensations, savoring the pleasure that eddied through her in gentle waves.

It had been so long since she’d been kissed. Too long, she thought dreamily. Drifting on a cottony cloud of delight, she opened her mouth to the one that settled over hers.

The kiss deepened. A hard arm wrapped around her waist. Her body came into contact with another at several highly erotic pressure points. Delight erupted into pleasure so hot and intense it jolted through her like an electric charge.

Her eyes flew open. Her arms froze in the act of twining around a strong, corded neck.

Good Lord! This wasn’t a dream! This wasn’t anything close to a dream! She was wrapped in the arms of a man she’d met just a few hours ago. Worse—much worse!—she was damned if she could recall how she’d gotten there. Thoroughly flustered, she shoved out of his hold.

“What are you doing?”

Frowning, the handsome stranger shagged a hand through his short-cropped hair. His voice was tight, his apology gruff.

“Sorry. Guess I misread the signals.”

What signals? The last thing Tracy remembered with any clarity was suggesting Mr. Andrew McDowell take a flying leap off the Green Pier. Not quite in those words, of course, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how they’d progressed from that chilly parting to a kiss that darned near melted her bones.

Oh, God! Had the stress of the past few months pushed her over the edge? First her job. Then Jack. Now this. Was she losing it? Making a desperate attempt to hide her incipient panic, she angled her chin.

“I think you’d better leave.”

He studied her for several moments, his face unreadable.

“Now,” she added with as much authority as she could muster at the moment.

He accepted the dictum with a curt nod. “See you around.”

Not if she could help it!

Looking as disgruntled as Tracy now felt, he deposited his plastic cup on the coffee table. The minute the door closed behind him she rushed to flip the dead bolt and fumble the chain into place. Slumping against the door, she put a hand to her mouth.

Tracy could still taste him on her lips, still feel the imprint of his body against hers. The man delivered one heck of a kiss. She’d give him that.

Her fingers came away stained with a greasy red smear. Grimacing, she went in search of a tissue. The chaos in the bathroom made her eyes pop.

Good grief! Surely she hadn’t created this war zone!

Her mouth curling in distaste, she surveyed the wet towels, the discarded bathrobe, the soap scum ringing the tub. A messy litter of cosmetics drew her to the tiled counter. Confusion swirled through her as she eyed the unfamiliar bottles, brushes and tubes.

Her usual beauty regimen consisted of a swipe of blush, a little mascara and flavored lip gloss. She rarely wore eye shadow and shied away from bright, garish colors like the lipstick lying uncapped on the counter. And where the heck had those bobby pins come from?

The near panic returned, prickling Tracy’s skin with icy goose bumps. She was losing it!

Her first instinct was to run. Driven by the wild urge to throw her things in her bag and scurry home to the safety of her cozy apartment, she whirled. Reality intervened before she’d taken more than a step or two.

The ferries didn’t operate at night. She couldn’t get off the island until morning. More to the point, she had a grim task to perform before she could depart Catalina. She’d put it off too long already.

“Tomorrow,” she promised softly, her chest squeezing.



The whispered vow came through Drew’s earpiece with Dolby-like clarity.

Tomorrow.

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, waiting for more. All he heard were the muted but unmistakable sounds of Tracy undressing, followed by a swish of bedcovers. An erotic mental image erupted inside his head as she slid into bed. No surprise, with his blood still singed from that wild kiss.

Where the hell had that come from? Drew hadn’t intended anything other than a mere taste. Next thing he knew, he was practically devouring the woman whole. The fact that her mouth had opened so seductively under his was no excuse for losing control of the situation. Drew couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had aroused and baffled him as much as this one. Frowning, he waited while she struggled to fall asleep.

Minutes passed as he listened to her roll over. Thump the pillow. Roll over again. After a long, gusting sigh, her breathing evened. Sometime later, it deepened to a soft, regular snuffling.

Drew waited another five minutes before he punched his code into his cell phone and aimed the camera at his right eye. Denise appeared on the video screen a few moments later.

“I read you, Riever. You all tucked in for the night?”

“I’m about to be. Anything on the target’s medical history?”

“Her last doctor’s visit was eight months ago, to renew her prescription for the patch.”

“She quit smoking?”

“Not that kind of patch. This one’s for birth control. Very convenient for active women who don’t want to worry about taking a pill every day.”

Drew tucked that information away. “No consults with a mental health professional?”

“None that I could find. But she’s paid out big bucks to a home health-care company over the past six months. I found charges for oxygen, nebulizers, nurses’ visits and diabetes test strips. I also found charges at the local Wal-Mart for Ensure and Centrum Silver.”

“Sounds like she was taking care of a senior. I found a photo in her wallet of her with an older man. I’m guessing her grandfather. I was going to ask you to run her family history.”

“Already done. She has no living relatives. Parents were killed in a car accident when she was three. The aunt who raised her died while Brandt was in college.”

“Have the team up in Puget Sound ask around to see if they can ID this older man.”

“Roger that. I’ll also have them check out the home health-care company. It has a twenty-four-hour number for emergencies, but the person who answered my call was goosey about releasing information until she checked with her supervisor in the morning.”

“Good enough. Maybe we can…”

Drew broke off. Head cocked, he strained to hear the soft sounds in the other room. The low murmurs came in snatches interspersed with breathy sighs.

“Something wrong, Riever?”

“I just picked up sounds from next door. Evidently the target talks in her sleep. Correction, make that sings in her sleep.”

It took only a few moments for Drew to recognize the melody.

“She’s humming the same tune she played on the computer earlier. Did you find anything on the song or the singer?”

“The song was written in the late thirties and recorded by a dozen different crooners over the years. Trixie Halston, the singer Brandt was listening to tonight, recorded her version in 1940.”

The low, seductive humming was like a drug, seeping into Drew’s veins, reheating his blood. Distracted by it, he had to force his attention back to Denise.

“Did you find anything on Halston?”

“Yeah, I did. She got her start with a small group in Nebraska and sang with a couple of swing bands before joining the Kenny Jones Orchestra. She was his featured singer from 1939 to 1941…until she took a dive off a balcony, right there on Catalina.”

The skin on the back of Drew’s neck tightened. His gut told him he knew the answer, but he asked anyway.

“What balcony?”

“The same one our target almost jumped off this afternoon,” Denise confirmed. “It happened in November 1941. Kenny Jones and his band were playing to a packed house in the ballroom. The newspaper reports said Halston slipped out to get some air after the last set. They also said she’d been known to smoke a joint or hit the bottle between sets. Apparently both were as common among musicians then as they are now. In any case, the ME ruled her death an accident. There were no witnesses and no evidence to suggest otherwise.”





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