And when her lungs could be denied no longer, she opened her mouth and on reflex inhaled. Water rushed into her mouth and lungs. Her eyes popped open and through the inches of water separating her from life, she saw his face. He studied her features closely. No humor. No joy. Just watching.
She tried to cough and gag, but it drew more water into her lungs. Her heart skipped a beat. Her vision blurred and then turned gray.
She could only think that this was a foolish way to die. So stupid. She’d always been so careful.
And then the blackness came, and her hold on life slipped. Maya drifted toward death.
Her next impression was of sucking in a lungful of air. She lay on her side and someone was patting her on the back. Water drained from her mouth. She breathed in long deep breaths and blinked.
She was alive. She was alive!
When the coughing ended, she rolled on her back, savoring a sense of relief that she’d never known before. Someone had stopped this madman and saved her. Saved her.
She blinked and focused, ready to thank her savior. But when her gaze sharpened, she didn’t see a White Knight. She saw the Hunter, whose blue eyes still held a mixture of curiosity and determination.
The elation vanished as quick as a balloon pricked by a sharp needle.
“Why?” she whispered. Her throat felt raw and her chest ached. She suspected she had a broken rib because each breath now hurt. He’d drowned her, and then he’d brought her back to life. She pictured him pumping on her chest and then blowing air into her lungs, performing CPR until he’d forced the air and life back in her.
“Are you evil? Are you a witch?” he said.
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Are you a witch?”
He wanted a confession. But as much as she wanted to give him one to make this nightmare end, she sensed if she told him, he’d kill her. And she knew, despite the horrors of this room, she wanted to live.
“I am not a witch.”
He shook his head. “The strong ones never admit to the evil at first.” He released the knob on the gurney again. “But in the end, they all do confess.”
Terror burned through her body. She glanced over at her shoulder and he slowly tipped her toward the water. “I am not a witch! I am good! I don’t des—”
Rushing water into her mouth cut off the last of her words.
Chapter 15
Tuesday, October 26, 10 a. m.
Rokov was called into court for a pretrial hearing, but the prosecution and defense has settled on a plea agreement. He hated the time spent in courthouses waiting to testify and doubted he’d ever fully accept it. Today, however, the summons to court had not bothered him as much because he’d half expected to see Charlotte. The White case was finished, but she was in the courthouse often enough that a chance meeting was possible.
He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering when he’d begun anticipating seeing Charlotte, not just in bed but also in public. They’d been intimate a half-dozen times and he’d learned things about her he suspected few knew. He knew makeup hid freckles on her nose. Knew her scent and the brand of her silk undergarments. Knew which touches made her coo. But beyond that, he knew little more than her public profile.
As he moved down the courthouse steps toward his car, the dark edges of his black suit flapping in the breeze, the cell in his pocket vibrated. He dug it out and paused on the sidewalk. “Rokov.”
“I didn’t think I’d get you.”
“Sinclair. They released me. Plea agreement.”
“This the stabbing on Van Dorn?”
“Yeah.”
“What was the deal?”
“Manslaughter. Ten years.”
She snorted. “I don’t agree, but no one asked me.”
He laughed. “Me either.”
Papers rustled in the background. “So now maybe we can get some real work done.”
“Would be a welcome change.” He wanted to forget about the stabbing on Van Dorn, which in his mind was premeditated murder, and he wanted to forget about Charlotte. “What do you have?”
“I have a line on another one of Diane Young’s more active clients.”
They’d spent the last week slowly going through the list. Diane Young had hundreds of clients, but most were out of state. They’d decided to narrow the field by interviewing anyone in a fifty-mile radius. That had shrunk the list to thirty, and so far members of the homicide team had talked to twenty-eight of those. The remaining two had taken more legwork to find.
Most had been infrequent customers who’d hired Diane on a lark or for pure entertainment. A handful were hardcore believers in her psychic talents and consulted her on everything from new jobs, lovers, or trivial crap such as the best time to take out the trash. Sad cases, as far as he was concerned.
“Who did you find?”
“Victor Ingram.”
He put on his sunglasses and, glancing both ways for traffic, crossed to his black cruiser. “He’s the one that did time for robbery?”
“One and the same. He’s been a hard one to track down, but he did check in with his parole officer today. He was sick, he said. Wasn’t real forthcoming about what made him sick but he’s back at work today.”
He slid behind the wheel of his car. The sun had warmed the leather and the heat eased his tense back. Too many nights at his desk and not enough exercise took its toll on him. In his twenties, he never had aches and pains. Now he did. He still blamed it on college rugby, not age. “Where is he now?”
“Works at a garage in Leesburg.”
He fired up the engine. “I’ll be by the offices in fifteen minutes. We can head out there now.”
“Roger that, boss.”
He hung up, pulled into traffic, and wove through the city streets. The drive from the courthouse to the police station took twenty minutes. When he pulled up, Sinclair was waiting.
She slid into the passenger side and rubbed her hands together. “Winter is on its way.”
“It’s sixty-five degrees. Hardly a cold snap.”
She shrugged. “The cold gets to me more these days.”
“You shouldn’t have taken those two weeks in Florida. They spoiled you.”
Sinclair shrugged. “I could get used to a life in the tropics on a beach easily.”
He chuckled. “You’d go insane. And you know it.”
“Maybe. Eventually. But I’d sure love to see how long it would take for the good life to bug me.”
“One month. Max.”
“You have little faith.”
“You’re type A, Sinclair. You don’t rest well.”
He maneuvered into traffic, which fed into the Beltway, the main highway artery around the Washington, D.C., Metro area. The westward drive to Leesburg took forty minutes, which in D.C. time was great. Rush-hour traffic, weather, or a fender bender could easily double or triple the drive.
They found Randall’s Garage on Route 7 on the outskirts of Leesburg near a strip mall. Randall’s was a one-story brick building with two garage bays, an office with a large picture window, and a couple of gas pumps out front. At one point the brick had been painted white, but time and weather had dulled the gloss and chipped the finish. A fluorescent sign in the picture window blinked Randall’s Garage in bright orange.
Rokov parked on the side of the building next to a row of cars that appeared to be in the queue for service. The detectives got out of the car and walked to the front office, where they found a tall, slim man behind the register. Of Middle Eastern descent, the man had ink black hair graying at the temples, and his shoulders had hunched in a pronounced stoop, as if he’d spent a lifetime bent over a car engine.
When the detectives entered, the man glanced up, his gaze turning from curious to suspicious. “May I help you?” Perfect grammar blended with a thick accent, suggesting he had been in this country many years but had spent a good bit of his early life overseas.
Rokov removed his badge from the breast pocket
of his suit. “My name is Detective Daniel Rokov. I’m with the Alexandria Police.” Sensing the man’s anxiety, he avoided using “Homicide Department.” When people realized he was investigating a murder, they immediately tensed. “This is my partner, Detective Jennifer Sinclair.”
Sinclair pulled out her badge and offered a fleeting smile. Warm and fuzzy was not her forte, and a lukewarm smile was a good effort for Sinclair. “Hello.”
The man nodded.
“And you are?” Rokov tucked his badge back in his pocket.
“I am Mr. Randall. This is my garage.” Apprehension rippled through the man’s body, but Rokov didn’t necessarily see that as a sign of guilt. This man was clearly from a country where a visit from the police could mean real trouble. How many times had his own grandmother hesitated around police?
“We’re here to speak to an employee of yours. A Mr. Victor Ingram.”
Mr. Randall expelled a small breath. “He is a mechanic. Is he in trouble?”
“No, sir. We just want to ask him a few questions. Routine.”
Mr. Randall pulled a rag from his back pocket and absently wiped his hands. “He is in the third bay working on a Ford truck. You can go through the side door in the office and you will see the truck.”
“Thank you,” Rokov said.
Rokov and Sinclair moved through the door that led into a three-bay garage. On the first rack, five feet above the air, was a red Honda. The next bay was empty and, in the third, the white Ford truck that Mr. Randall mentioned. The heavy scent of oil and gas hung in the garage air, and the buzz-buzz of a pneumatic wrench blended with the rock music blaring from a radio.