Tempest Court. Jan Walters

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      Chapter 16

      Brett jerked awake. Something touched the back of his neck. He rolled over and saw Michael standing above the bed, motioning for him to follow. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly before rolling out of bed and tiptoeing out of the bedroom.

      He joined Michael in the kitchen. His great-grandfather sat at the table, watching him. He slid into a chair and rested his chin in his hands. With eyes barely open, he let out a yawn. Ready to ream the ghost out for waking him up in the middle of the night, Brett bit back his harsh words. His eyes narrowed, studying Michael. With the fedora in his hand, Michael’s head bowed. The ghost’s sandy-brown hair fell across his brow. Brett straightened. Michael’s green eyes looked wet.

      “What’s wrong?” Brett leaned forward.

      “There’s been a murder at the Art Center.”

      Brett clenched his fists. “What?”

      Michael waved a hand at him. “Calm down. It’s not Layla or anyone you know.”

      “Start talking.”

      “I was snooping around Layla’s exhibit tonight because that creepy canopic jar of yours still bothers me. As I was drifting around the building, I heard a strange moan or something. By the time I got there, some young kid was gutted like a fish.”

      “So Morrison is okay then?” Brett’s lips thinned into a straight line.

      Michael nodded. “Yep. How do you know him?”

      “He used to work with Dad before he died. I remember him hanging out at the house when I was a kid.”

      “He seems like a nice guy. It was quite a shock for him.”

      Brett rose and plugged in the coffee maker. “Did you see who did it? How did they get in without triggering the alarms?”

      Michael held up his hands. “Whoa, sonny, all I saw was a dead body.”

      “Why were you there tonight?”

      “Just making sure nothing kinky was going on. After the past couple of years and those strange cases, call me skittish.”

      Brett popped in a coffee pod. “Nothing is going on, so don’t be imagining things. Once the investigation is completed, you’ll see nothing supernatural is going on.”

      “Hmph,” Michael muttered. Picking up Brett’s coffee, Michael inhaled, enjoying the tantalizing brew. What he would give for a drink! “I can’t believe you had that damn jar thing in your closet.”

      Brett grabbed his coffee from Michael. “We’ve already had this conversation.” Brett rubbed his eyes. “Was there anything else you wanted? I’d like to get a few more hours of sleep before I have to go to work.”

      “Lisa’s friend is going to be upset about the murder.”

      Setting his cup of coffee on the table, Brett muttered, “I’m sure she’s been notified by now. The murder will do one of two things—keep people away from the exhibit or bring out all the crazies.”

      “My bet is on the crazies.”

      Brett rolled his eyes. “Can’t you be more positive?”

      “I am. I’m positive that busloads of crazies will be checking out the Egyptian exhibit.” Michael plopped his hat on his head as his figure shimmered into glistening particles barely visible to the human eye.

      Brett glanced around the empty kitchen and sighed. He set his cup in the sink, dumping out the remainder of his coffee. Suddenly, his mouth tasted like sawdust. Instinctively, he checked the lock on the back door. A glance at the clock showed he had two hours of sleep left. He crawled into bed and wrapped an arm over Lisa’s waist.

      Even though he closed his eyes, there was no way he’d get back to sleep after hearing Michael’s grizzly details. Was it a coincidence that a mummy was on site at the time of the murder? After punching his pillow, he flopped on his back. Instead of relying on logic to keep him from worrying, he saw shadows where there were none.

      * * * * *

      Brett stepped off the elevator, stopping by Marge’s desk. The silver-haired secretary pounded away on the keyboard. He cleared his throat to get her attention. Her fingers continued to fly.

      “O’Shea. What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy? That boss of yours has been on a rampage all morning.”

      He glanced over his shoulder. The door to Foster’s office was closed. Brett leaned down, whispering, “I heard we had a murder last night.”

      Marge’s hands dropped to her lap. She peered over her purple glasses, assessing him. “How do you know that? I just found out when Foster tossed some reports on my desk ten minutes ago.”

      His mouth opened and closed. Marge shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. There’s always been something odd about you, O’Shea.”

      “Geez, Marge, I thought you liked me.”

      Her gaze lit up. “O’Shea, you know if I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’m just saying there’s something strange about you. It’s like you’re out of step with everyone else.”

      He chortled. “My mom would agree with you, but don’t tell Foster.”

      Marge’s smile grew. “So you don’t want Foster to know?”

      “Yeah, I could…” His words drifted away as someone came into the line of sight. Fuck!

      Foster’s steely gaze pinned Brett to the floor. The head of detectives leaned closer. His growl filled Brett’s ear. “Don’t want me to know what?”

      Brett bit his lip, stalling for time. How much did Foster hear? “No, sir. Marge was saying… And I…”

      “Don’t bring me into this. I’m sitting here working.” Marge turned and proceeded to type the reports.

      A breath caught in his chest. He turned to face Foster. He had known Foster for years. His grim, military look put off most of the officers on the force. Foster wasn’t one of those happy-go-lucky guys. Underneath, Foster was an okay guy. He supported his men—something he couldn’t say for all the brass. He and Foster worked the vampire case last year. Once Foster got beyond the shock that paranormal killers and ghosts existed, he was a killing machine. The man didn’t show any mercy…to anyone.

      “My office. Now!” Foster bellowed.

      Not a good way to start his morning.

      Brett stood before Foster’s СКАЧАТЬ