He set the terms between the three of them. No one else.
Besides, he had enough on his plate.
“Bad call?” the guy beside him asked.
Duke let the question slide. He was not interested in getting familiar with the fathead in the passenger seat—and he was certainly not going to let the stranger into his biz. Hell, he didn’t allow that with people he knew.
Fortunately, there was no more talking as he took them into town, the rural miles and then the suburban blocks getting eaten up fast.
“So, I know you,” the guy said as they hit some traffic going into the thick of downtown.
Duke glanced across the seat. Nope, he didn’t recognize his one-shift partner. But that didn’t mean the man hadn’t been in line at the Iron Mask or something—although that hardly counted as “knowing.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do.” The man flicked the tip off his Marlboro out of the window crack and put the dead butt in his jacket pocket. “I know that you’re going to face a crossroads soon, and you’re going to have to make a choice. I’m here to help you do the right thing.”
What the fuck?
Duke hit the brakes to stop at a red light, and turned to face Mr. Chatty. Time to set the ground rules before this became the longest workday of his life. “You and I have six hours where we are required to be … together … in … this…”
Duke let the screw-you wind down into silence as he met the man’s eyes. Strange eyes. Strange color.
Just like the other “worker” he’d been paired with.
Abruptly, a cotton-wool feeling came over him—talk about your contact highs. It was a little like what he’d felt when he was around his star boarder for too long while Rolly was toking up—but it was so much more than that.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the man said. “In another block and a half, you’re going to turn right and take us down to the river. We’re going to parallel-park and take a walk in the park so the GPS on this truck reports that we’ve done our job. But we’re not going to be digging out any bushes. You’re going to tell me where you’re at—we’re almost out of time and I need to be up to speed quick.”
Duke blinked. And then his phone started ringing again.
He took it out slowly. As he saw who was calling, he looked back at the man. With a feeling of total unreality, he heard himself say, “Do you know … a woman with brunette hair?”
As that psychic crackpot from Trade Street went into Duke’s voice mail, it was somehow not a surprise that the man beside him nodded slowly.
“Yeah, I do. And we need to keep you away from her.”
Somewhere deep in his marrow, Duke knew that this was what he’d been waiting his whole adult life for. He’d always had some sense that things were not normal for him, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise—and that was the reason he’d gone to that psychic for all those years.
It was also the “why” behind his nightmares, the ones he told nobody about.
Duke’s phone let out a beep, notifying him that a new message had been left for him.
Through the fog that had settled into his brain, he watched his thumb move over the smooth screen, calling the voice mail up … and then he put the cell up to his ear.
“Duke, this is Yasemin Oaks—you must come see me. At the very least, I need to speak with you urgently. The dreams are getting more intense—you are in danger—please, Duke, I’m warning you. Blood is going to flow and—”
“The light’s green,” the man next to him announced. “Hit the gas and take us down to the river. It’s time, Duke. We’ve got shit to take care of.”
For some strange reason, Duke thought of Cait. Beautiful Cait.
“I don’t know you,” he said roughly.
“You don’t have to. But you need to trust me.”
Snap out of it, he told himself. This is all bullcrap.
“Not going to happen,” he heard himself say.
Abruptly, he put his phone away. Pushed his foot down on the accelerator. And was ready to go anywhere except over to the water—just to establish who was in charge.
After a moment, he glanced over at the other man. The son of a bitch was sitting in the passenger seat, jaw set like he knew exactly how this was going to play out.
Duke cursed under his breath. Yeah, no way he was telling this guy anything … and yet he couldn’t ignore the sense of foreboding that was dogging him. Besides, he’d wanted to end this shit for so long, even as he was knee-deep in it right now. The trouble was, old habits, like bitter resentments, died hard.
“You don’t have much of a choice,” the man said. “You need me if you want to come out of this in one piece.”
One piece? Duke thought. Hah. I’m already broken.
“You’re going to tell me everything, Duke. You have to.”
Chapter
Forty
As Cait parallel-parked on Trade Street, no more than a block away from the Palace Theatre, she frowned and leaned into the windshield. It wasn’t because she was lost this time, though. As opposed to when she’d been trying to find the hair salon a couple of nights ago, she had no confusion as to the theater’s location.
The issue was the police.
There were six or seven Caldwell Police Department vehicles parked in front of the Palace, and about half a dozen uniformed officers milling around outside the main entrance.
Getting out into the sunshine, she pulled her light coat in tighter and slung her bag over her shoulder. She had to wait for a stream of traffic to go by, but eventually there was a break in the cars and she jaywalked across.
Probably not the smartest thing to do in front of a cop convention, but it sure seemed like the unis had bigger fish to fry than her.
As she approached the knot of officers, several of them turned to her.
“Hi,” she said, blinking in the glare of their badges. “I’m here to meet a friend for lunch?”
The tallest one, an African-American guy with a voice that suggested you really did not mess with him, spoke up. “Who would that be?”
“G. B. Holde? He’s a singer—he’s here rehearsing for Rent?”
“You’re meeting him for what?”
Abruptly, they were all focused on her, measuring her, no doubt taking mental pictures and notes. “Lunch? We were going to have a sandwich together?”
“Is this a regular thing?”
“Um, no. We made the date—er, you know, the time—last night?”
“Do you know him well?”
“Why are you here? What’s happened?”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cait. Caitlyn Douglass?” Maybe they were violating her rights, she didn’t know. But she had nothing to hide. “Is he okay?”
“We can’t let you inside, ma’am, I’m sorry. This is a crime scene.”
Cait felt the blood leave her face. “Who died?”
“A young female.”
Which meant G.B. was okay—and yet the intel was not any kind of relief. “Oh … God.” Was it a case of Sissy all over again? Or … “I was chased in the parking lot the other night. You don’t suppose this had anything to do with—”
“When was that, ma’am?”
Even more police officers clustered around her as she told them all what had happened to her. And then an exhausted man in a loose suit came out of the theater’s glass doors.
“Detective?” someone called out. “We got a female over here.”
A man with dark hair and a way-too-early-in-the-day five o’clock shadow walked across the mosaic stretch and put his hand out. “Detective de la Cruz. How you doing?”