Déjà Vu. Lisa Childs

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СКАЧАТЬ to interview him.”

      “That’s if the bosses will let us.” Vonner pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. “I still can’t believe he was granted access to a crime scene.”

      “A crime he could have committed,” she reminded her partner and herself. He could be a killer in this life, too.

      “Think the Bureau will let us use the helicopter to get back to the U.P.?” he asked. “I hate to think of doing that drive again.”

      “He’s here now,” she murmured, her skin tingling as she sensed him close.

      “What?”

      “He’s somewhere in the building,” she said.

      “What? Did Security notify you when he came in?” Vonner asked.

      “Something like that …” Her phone rang, saving her from offering a more specific explanation. Her partner would not understand her special connection with the horror author; she didn’t understand it herself.

      Vonner grabbed the receiver. “Agent Paulsen’s desk.”

      She held out her hand for the phone, but instead of passing it to her, he hung it up. “Who was that?” she asked.

      “The morgue.”

      Trent gripped the edge of the metal table on which the victim’s body lay. His vision blurred, a red haze blinding him as pain overwhelmed him. He felt every emotion she had experienced in those final moments before her death. Panic shortened his breath and quickened his pulse. Then the fear intensified to a terror so acute that his lungs burned with a scream he couldn’t utter. His throat ached as if strong hands wrapped tight around his neck, choking the life from his body. But before the threatening blackness claimed him, the pressure eased. He gasped for breath, trying to fill his aching lungs. Then pain shot through his heart, so sharp and intense he clutched a hand to his chest and dropped to his knees.

      “What’s he doing?” a male voice whispered. “Having a heart attack?”

      Trent turned toward where Alaina stood in the doorway to Autopsy. He hadn’t felt her this time. He’d been too connected to the dead woman, to the emotions echoing from her soul within the empty shell of her mutilated body.

      Those emotions clung to him no matter that he tried to shake them off. Exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs, he lurched to his feet and staggered into the metal table. The woman’s stiff arm dropped off the edge, her hand open as if reaching out to him.

      Alaina stared at him, her eyes narrowed and her brow slightly creased beneath the fall of blond hair. The man, her partner, stood almost in front of her, as if protecting her from Trent or trying to come between them.

      A memory tugged at him, a memory of frustration and jealousy. Someone else had tried to come between them. In another life?

      “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Agent Vonner asked. “Are you drunk?”

      He ignored the man as if he was invisible. To Trent he was; he could see only her now.

      “What are you doing?” she asked him finally.

      “I was given access—”

      “To the Bureau’s morgue?” Vonner asked, his voice cracking with shock and indignation. “Who the hell gave you access?”

      Because she lifted a dark blond brow in question, Trent answered, “Phillip Graves.”

      A breath hissed out between Vonner’s clenched teeth at the mention of the director’s name. He turned his back on Trent and spoke softly to her. “We gotta stop this, Alaina. We can’t have a suspect getting access to the crime scene and the evidence. We have to talk to the director.”

      “You need to talk to Agent Bilski first,” she corrected her coworker as she slipped past him to stand on the opposite side of the metal table from Trent. “Don’t go over his head.”

      “Okay, Bilski first,” Vonner agreed. “But you have to come with me to talk to him.”

      She shook her head in denial.

      Trent’s lips twitched into an amused grin. She didn’t like being told what to do. He could identify; he’d never liked taking orders.

      “I can’t leave you alone with him,” Vonner said.

      She lifted her gaze from the victim to Trent. “Where’s Dr. Rosenthal?”

      “He stepped out to get something for me,” Trent admitted.

      “What the hell? Are you ordering him around like you do that ape you have on your payroll?” Vonner asked.

      “Oh, I’m glad you’re still here,” Dr. Rosenthal said as he rushed back into the room. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

      The gray-haired coroner’s admiration and awe physically washed over Trent, drawing a smile from him even as Vonner’s disgust and distrust pummeled him from the other side of the room. But he experienced none of Alaina’s emotions. He could only feel her, like a touch on his skin, a kiss on his lips….

      Dr. Rosenthal held out a book and a pen to Trent. “Do you mind signing my copy for me?”

      Trent steadied his hand as he reached for the book, the same edition that had been spattered with blood at the crime scene. Even though this cover was clean, he could see the blood again on his hand.

      How was he involved in all of this? It was more than mere coincidence. He knew this. And so did she.

      Vonner snorted and turned on his heel, leaving the room. Trent noted his exit, but Alaina didn’t so much as glance at her partner. Instead, she stared at him, as if trying to figure out who he was or where she’d seen him before.

      An image chased through Trent’s mind. The curve of a woman’s throat as she arched her neck. Her hands, with slender, red-tipped fingers, cupping and caressing her own breasts as she moved her hips, rocking back and forth on his pulsing erection. Then her cry of pleasure as she came. The woman had red hair and green eyes; she looked nothing like Alaina. But to him, she felt the same.

      “Mr. Baines,” the coroner said, glancing from him to Agent Paulsen. Confusion wrinkled his brow. “Do you mind autographing …?”

      “Not at all,” Trent assured him, flipping through until he came to the title page. Then he scrawled the doctor’s name, some platitude and his own, although sometimes he didn’t feel as if his name was really his. Even though he hadn’t taken a pen name, Trent Baines felt like an alias; he felt as if he was really someone else.

      “So, Dr. Rosenthal,” Alaina said, drawing the coroner’s attention away from him, “when will you have the autopsy report ready?”

      “I need more time,” Dr. Rosenthal said, his face flushing with color.

      “How long?” Alaina asked sharply, her impatience with the doctor’s lack of professionalism obvious.

      “I can’t tell you how long it will take me,” the doctor said. “It’s getting СКАЧАТЬ