Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather
She accepted the photographs. She wasn’t sure where West was going with this, so she studied them carefully. Denise in a long, silky wedding gown, Denise making a funny face at the camera, Denise at an Indian gathering, eating fry bread. “I see a beautiful young woman who shouldn’t have died.”
“Me, too. But there’s more to it than that. Something I can’t put my finger on.” He reached for the wedding photo. “She looks truly happy here. The others almost seem like a forgery.”
Olivia glanced up at him. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s a gut a feeling, I guess. My ESP, if you will.”
She merely nodded. Most investigators had strong instincts. But that didn’t mean he was right. Or that he had powers beyond the norm.
Except for those eyes, she thought, as she searched his gaze. They were almost devoid of color today. Like clear quartz crystals from the earth.
“Does Denise remind you of someone in those pictures?” Muncy asked West.
The special agent shrugged. “Lots of people smile when they’re troubled. Lots of people fake it.”
Olivia glanced at the remaining photographs in her lap. She could feel West’s energy, his displacement, the electrical charge swirling around him. “She reminds you of your ex-wife,” she said. “That’s the forgery you were talking about.”
He gave her an annoyed look. “This isn’t about me.”
Olivia didn’t back down. “Your ex was unhappy. Discontent. You spent more time on the job than you did at home, and she couldn’t handle that.”
West didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. The scene was already set.
Muncy tapped the fry-bread picture of Denise. “She was married to a surgeon.”
“And she probably felt neglected,” Riggs put in. “Her hubby worked some rigorous hours.”
“She didn’t cheat,” Olivia said, studying the dead woman’s image. “She didn’t have a lover.”
“You sure about that?” West asked.
“Yes. But…” A sudden sadness ripped through her body. Denise’s loneliness. The nights she dreamed about romance and flowers and a man whose touch would make her feel special. “She wanted to. She fantasized about having an affair.”
West sat back in his chair, grabbed his bottled water and took a swig. Apparently Denise’s fantasies had left a bad taste in his mouth. “The killer knew that. The son of a bitch knew.”
Olivia agreed. “I think so, too.” But she wasn’t surprised. The Slasher’s supernatural abilities were part of his MO, part of what drove him.
“I could use a drink,” West said suddenly, discarding his water. “Something stronger than this.”
Because he was still dwelling on his ex, Olivia thought.
“Sounds good to me.” Muncy frowned at his over-brewed coffee. “Why don’t we all meet at the Mockingbird later? After this long-ass day ends.”
“I’m game.” Riggs looked at Olivia. “How about you?”
She knew the Mockingbird was a cop-patronized bar downtown. And she knew Special Agent West was going to get tanked. Damn-the-consequences drunk. “Sure,” she said, glancing in his direction. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
* * *
At 6:00 p. m., Olivia had dinner. Nothing fancy, just a routine meal with her sister and Glenn Sabolich, a family friend who’d been part of their lives since they were children.
The trio met regularly at Mel’s Diner, a legendary restaurant brimming with fifties nostalgia. This evening they ate on the patio, where a view of the Sunset Strip presented the glitz and glamour associated with West Hollywood.
Glenn munched casually on a Famous Melburger, his grayish blond hair blowing lightly in the breeze. He was more than a family friend, Olivia thought. He was also their landlord, the real estate mogul who owned the loft in which she and Allie lived. But Glenn had owned the rental house where they’d grown up, too.
At fifty-four, he was the same age as their dad. Or the same age Joseph would have been if he hadn’t pulled the trigger.
Glenn and their father had been close, and when Joseph committed suicide, he’d helped Olivia and Allie pick up the chipped pieces of their lives. She was never sure what Glenn had thought of their mother, although he’d never said anything unkind about her.
He looked up and caught Olivia watching him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she responded, wondering why he’d never remarried. Glenn’s socialite wife had filed for a divorce ages ago, about six months before Olivia’s mom had ditched her dad.
Allie finally decided to join the conversation. Until now she’d been people watching, gazing at the trendy pedestrians walking by. “We should tell Glenn about the wanagi.”
“A ghost?” He recognized the Lakota word.
Olivia sighed. Allie was obsessed with the wanagi. “It made contact with me, but Allie thinks it’s Dad.”
Glenn’s voice cracked. “That’s not good. Your father deserves to have some peace. He…”
As his words faded into the atmosphere, his emotions knifed Olivia’s heart. Shame. Remorse. A horrible secret. Stunned, she shifted in her chair, studying the man she’d always trusted.
Glenn was hiding something. Something he’d been hiding for years.
Allie reached for her tea, adding honey to the warm brew. “I’ve been leaving those little candy hearts out for Dad. Just in case he wants to communicate with us.”
Olivia tilted her head. Suddenly everyone seemed mad. Not only did Allie expect the wanagi to eat the candy, she expected it to make sentences out of things like, Hey Babe, Get Real, Go Girl and Don’t Tell.
Don’t tell.
Olivia looked at Glenn, saw him struggle to finish his burger.
Dinner went downhill from there. Glenn remained uncomfortable, barely speaking. Allie resumed people watching, her mind probably drifting on a cloud.
And Olivia? She checked her watch, anxious to leave, to have a drink with the detectives and the FBI agent investigating a trio of grisly murders.
Thirty minutes later she arrived at the Mockingbird, still wearing her minuscule skirt and the lacy garter belt she’d flashed at West. She’d added a biker jacket to the ensemble, warding off a self-induced chill.
What if Glenn had done something to intensify her father’s pain? What if he had been part of her dad’s despair? A link in his suicide?
It was a cruel thought, but it kept running through her brain, slinking and sliding like a poisonous snake.
Clearing her mind, she entered the bar. The Mockingbird was a down-to-earth watering hole, with a jukebox in front and a billiard table in back. The owner, a no-nonsense Irishman, didn’t take any guff from his law-enforcement patrons.
Olivia found Muncy and Riggs seated at a scratched and scuffed table, drinking beer and eating peanuts. They looked up, greeting her in unison.
“Where’s West?” she asked.
Muncy gestured with his thumb. “In the head.”
She glanced in the direction of the men’s room and took the chair across from Riggs.
“That’s where West is sitting,” the female detective said. “That’s his drink in front of you.”
“Oh.” Olivia smiled at the other woman, picked up the glass