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Of course she hadn’t, but his blunt answer had killed the conversation, just as he had hoped. This woman could play hell with his life on so many levels if she made even half an effort. Scary notion.
Tanya placed two very full plates on the table, along with two tall glasses of iced tea.
“Raintree,” M
alory said in a lowered voice, after Tanya walked away. “Everything on my plate but the turnip greens is fried.”
“Yep,” he answered as he dug in. “Good stuff.”
They both turned their attention to eating, Hope slightly less enthusiastic than Gideon about the fare, though after a few bites she relaxed and started to enjoy the meal. Gideon was glad for the silence, but it also made him nervous, because there was a level of comfort in it.
He didn’t need or want a partner. He’d tolerated Leon for three and a half years, and in the end they’d made a pretty good team. Gideon solved the cases; Leon did the paper work and handled the bullshit. At the end of the day they both looked good and everyone was happy. Hope Malory did not look like a happy person.
“I think she’s killed before,” a soft voice called.
Gideon turned his head to glance into the unoccupied booth behind him. Well, it had been unoccupied—until Sherry Bishop arrived. She looked less solid than she had back at the apartment, but it was definitely her. “What?” he asked softly.
“Raintree,” Malory began, “are you all…”
He silenced his new partner with a lifted hand but never took his eyes from Sherry.
“The woman who killed me,” the ghost said. “She wasn’t at all afraid or even nervous, just anxious. Wound up, the way Echo and I always were before a gig. I think she liked it. I think she enjoyed killing me.”
“Raintree,” Malory said again, her voice sharper than before.
Gideon lifted his hand once more, this time with a raised finger to indicate silence.
“Shake that finger at me again and I’ll break it off.”
Sherry Bishop disappeared, and Gideon turned around to face an angry and confused Detective Malory.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking.”
“You have an odd way of thinking.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Something in her expression changed. Her eyes grew softer, her lips fuller, and something worse than anger appeared. Curiosity. “But apparently it works,” she said. “How do you do it?”
“Think?” He knew what she was asking; he just didn’t want to go there.
“I’ve never known a detective with a record like yours. Except for that one case last year, your record is flawless.”
“I know Stiles did it, I just can’t prove it. Yet.”
“How?” she whispered. “How do you know?”
It was easiest to pretend that he was like everyone else when the question came up. He had a gift for seeing small things that others missed; he had an eye for detail; he saw patterns; he was dedicated to solving each and every case. All those things were true, but they weren’t the reason for his almost flawless record.
“I talk to dead people.”
Malory’s response was immediate and not at all unexpected. She laughed out loud. The laugh did great things to her face. Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks grew pink; her lips turned up at the corners. It struck Gideon sharply that he felt much too comfortable with Hope Malory. That laugh was nicely familiar. He could get used to this…and he couldn’t allow that to happen.
Hope drove slowly past Raintree’s house, and the sight of his house didn’t allay her suspicions at all.
The three-story pale gray Carolina-style house right on Wrightsville Beach hadn’t been bought on a cop’s salary, that was for sure. This was one of the nicest areas along the strip, and he owned one of the nicest houses. She’d already done some investigating, and she knew what he’d paid for the place when he’d moved in four years ago.
There was a three-car garage at the end of a short paved driveway. She knew, even though the garage doors were down, that every bay was filled. Raintree owned a black ’66 Mustang, the convertible he’d driven today; a ’57 Chevy Bel Air, turquoise and cream; and a ’74 Dodge Challenger in rally-red, whatever that was.
