Dream of Shadows
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~ EXCERPT ~
"Excuse me."
The voice was soft, thrumming with an exotic rhythm. Detective Carter "Jax" Jackson looked up from his perpetual stack of paperwork and found himself staring. Then staring some more.
Class. That word came to mind first as he looked at her. She was the epitome of upper-class Black America, from the cultured voice to the makeup expertly applied to her honeyed features, to the expensive cut and cloth of her clothing. She looked just shy of thirty, her round face unlined, although her cognac-colored eyes seemed aged and weighted by her thoughts.
Elegant and gorgeous, but not the pencil-thin, it's-a-sin-to-have-dessert type of woman. No, she curved the way a woman should curve, all delicious roundness under her scooped-neck burgundy sweater and tailored charcoal trousers. She was beautiful.
And way out of his league.
"Is there something I can help you with, Mrs....?" Yeah, he knew he was fishing, but damned if he was going to stop.
"Ms.," she corrected him. "Nicole Legere." She shifted her coat and purse, both made of soft, expensive black leather, before taking his hand, gripping it firmly.
"Jackson. Detective Carter Jackson." Her hand was smooth in his, though slightly damp and trembling.
"Detective Jackson." She acknowledged his introduction with a slight nod and a slighter smile that made her seem upset. "I was looking for Detective Browning, but they told me that she's not here."
"No, she's out on maternity leave. Perhaps I can help you?" He’d never used the word perhaps in his life, but this woman made him want to mind his manners and remember his SAT words.
Her gaze flitted about the bustling squad room. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"
Intrigued, Jax released her hand. "Of course. Follow me."
He led her through a sea of desks, people, and paperwork, wishing all the while that she was walking in front of him. Few things got him going like watching a sophisticated woman walk.
Cool it, Jax, he thought to himself. You act like it's been years since you’ve seen a gorgeous woman. This is business.
Choosing the first empty conference room he came to, he steered her inside, gestured her to a chair, then shut the door. She draped her coat over the back of the chair, then settled in, crossing her legs at the shins and keeping her knees firmly pressed together, with her purse clutched in both hands atop them.
The ring finger on her left hand was bare, he noted. He smiled to put her at ease. "How do you know Detective Browning?"
Her gaze rested on his, and he felt something, everything, jump deep inside. "I met her last semester, at Georgia State," she explained. "She did a talk for one of my psychology classes."
Beautiful and smart, but she seemed too mature and sophisticated to be a coed. Jax straightened his posture. "Are you a professor there?"
She smiled. "No, I'm finishing my doctorate in psychology. Almost done, thank goodness."
He enjoyed her smile for a moment, then regretfully steered the conversation back. "If you want Browning's notes or something, I can try to contact her for you."
Like throwing a switch, her smile disappeared. "Actually, I didn't come to talk to her about class."
Whatever Nicole Legere wanted to talk about, it obviously wasn’t a happy subject. Jax assumed an open, friendly position. "What did you want to talk to her about, Ms. Legere? Maybe I can help."
She took a deep breath, leaving Jax hard-pressed to keep his eyes on her face instead of dropping lower. "I'd like to report a murder."
"What?" He sat forward, hoping he hadn't heard her right. Surely he hadn't heard her right. She repeated her statement with the same calm as before.
Something definitely sounded off. Her eyes swept the office, him, everything, constantly on the move. "Who was murdered? And why come to the precinct instead of calling 9-1-1?" Jax asked, already dreading the answer.
She looked down, her fingers entwining in the straps of her supple leather purse. Her shoulders bunched together as if she were a bird about to take flight. "Because it hasn't happened yet."
Jax sighed. Great. Just great. A beautiful woman glides into his precinct, asks for his help, and turns out to be off her rocker.
Except she didn't look crazy to him. She looked concerned, collected, and classy, but certainly not crazy. Not ready to throw her out, Jax decided to try a different tack.
"Have you or someone you know been threatened?"
"No," she replied, her accent softening the word. "I don't know her, but she's in trouble. Or will be."
"And this person is?"
She loosened her grip on the purse, settling it on the floor before fixing him with an earnest stare. "She's an emergency room nurse at one of the area hospitals. As she heads for the train station, someone chases her, catches her, then strangles her."
Jax resisted the urge to look around for the hand basket his day had just hopped in. Being stuck doing paperwork while his partner was off following up a lead was bad enough. Ending up in a private office with a beautiful woman who wanted to report a murder, a murder that hadn’t happened yet, definitely didn’t top the list of how he wanted to spend his day.
He allowed himself to get a little pissed and to show it. "So what, are you telling me that you've had a premonition or something?"
Something crept into her expression, a blend of wariness and pride. "That's exactly what I'm telling you, Detective Jackson."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees, driven down by the chill in her voice. Not that Jax gave a damn, mind you. "Ms. Lejeune--"
"Legere."
"Legere," he conceded. He sat forward in his chair, piercing her with a less-than-friendly look. "I'm sure you realize that the Atlanta Police Department has a significant caseload. Wasting the department's time with frivolous charges could get you in a lot of trouble."
Irritation marred the perfection of her features as her purse landed at her feet with a thump. She rose to her feet, settling her hands to her hips in the classic pissed-off-Black-woman pose.
"Detective Jackson. I understand how valuable your time is. Mine is equally so. I am doing my duty by reporting a crime, even though it hasn't yet occurred. I certainly don't believe that what I'm doing is frivolous." She grabbed her coat off the back of the chair, then leaned over to snatch her purse off the floor.
"Wait." It must have been the flash of cleavage, full and sweet against the vee-neck of her sweater. Jax couldn’t think of another reason why he ignored her attitude and the urge to let her keep walking to the door. "Why don't I take your statement now, just for the record?"
His tone was reasonable, meant to soothe. He'd throw the damn file away tomorrow. "That way, we can have your information on file."
When she didn't turn, he added, "Please."
She returned to her seat, still defensive but somewhat mollified. "Believe it or not, Detective, this isn't easy for me. I know you think I'm certifiable at the very worse or hallucinating at the very best. I'm not. Someone is going to die, horribly. If I don't convince you, if I don't try to do something--"
"What?"
Her gaze shifted to the plaques on the wall behind him. "I don't want her death on my conscience."
Jax leaned back in his chair again, wanting to put a little distance between himself and the woman he suddenly couldn't pin down. She seemed so sincere. But then, most lunatics were perfectly sincere in their madness.
But Nicole Legere didn't look crazy to him. Worry creased her forehead, and she had her wavy hair, a mixture of gold, bronze and brown, gathered at the nape of her neck. Simple gold hoops graced the lobes of her ears, the only sign of jewelry. She was the picture of a successful career woman with no time or patience for flights of fancy. And her eyes, large, whiskey-colored doe eyes, the kind of eyes he was a sucker for, shone with her sincerity.
He blinked away his thoughts. Sure, he was paid to notice things about people, but paying too much attention to this woman would definitely be bad for his blood pressure. He pulled a ballpoint pen and notebook from his jacket pocket. "Let me get some contact information from you. Then you can tell me everything you know."
Without hesitation she gave him her phone number and address, a neighborhood known for its security, family atmosphere, and prices. Either she'd married and divorced well, or her family had money. He'd bet the latter. "All right, now tell me everything you know about the victim, the possible victim."
She ran her palms across her tops of her thighs as if drying sudden perspiration. Jax followed the movement, trying not to imagine what her bare thighs would look like.
"I don't know her name. Like I said before, she's a nurse at one of the downtown hospitals. Hispanic, I think. She was thinking about her husband Ramon and how they have to struggle to spend time with each other and their daughter Ismelda. Her husband and daughter are her whole world.
"When she gets off work after eleven, someone named Kathy asks her if she needs a ride to the station, but the nurse laughs and says she doesn't need one because it's not that far. The night is misty, and everything has that funky orange glow because of the streetlights. She wonders why there isn't anyone else around because it's always so busy. It's so quiet that it freaks her out.
"She looks back and sees a man--he's wearing a hooded sweatshirt and dark pants, but his face is blurry. He scares her enough to make her run, even though she feels like a fool, until she realizes he's catching up to her. Something flies over her head, a cord of some kind, with metal spikes that bite into her neck, tearing away the crucifix she always wears as she's knocked off her feet. She's suffocating and then the chain digs into her throat. There's pain, then blood, then nothing."
She stopped with a ragged breath, then covered her face with shaking hands, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Quiet filled the office, punctuated by the bustle beyond the door. Jax let the silence continue, keeping his gaze on the woman across from him as she regained her composure.
Sighing, she dropped her hands and gave him a watery look of resignation. "You don't believe me."
"Why the hell should I?" He made his voice deliberately harsh, feeling a minute twinge of guilt when she flinched. "A Hispanic nurse is going to be strangled as she goes home from work. That's all the information you have? You don't know where, you don't know who, and you don't know when?"
"It will happen in the next few days," she corrected him. "Before the week is out, she'll be dead."
Truth weighted her words. She believed the line she fed him. He refrained from rubbing at his forehead. "This is an incredible story. Even you have to admit that."
"I can. I do."
"Then why should I believe you? How can you possibly know something like this?"
She dug into her purse, coming up with a packet of tissues. Pulling one out, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "If you think coming down here telling this story is my idea of fun, you're mistaken," she informed him in an unsteady tone. "I have a full load at school, an internship, and a terrific daughter who is my entire world. My life is almost perfect. I don't need these premonitions. I didn't ask for them, and I sure don't want them. They come when they come, and if I don't at least try to do something about them, I pay."
"Premonitions?"
She looked at him as if he'd misunderstood her. "That's what I said."
Great. Just freaking great. He put down his pen with a precise movement. "So you're telling me you're some sort of psychic?"
Caution crept into her gaze. "Not intentionally or professionally," she answered. "I don't receive messages the way other psychics do. Psychic impressions come to me through my dreams."
Now he'd heard everything. He bit back a smile. "Through your dreams, huh?"
Ice seeped through the wariness. "Yes, through dreaming. If the same dreams occurs three times, it invariably comes true."
Indulgence curved his lips into a smile. He could see the joke, even if she couldn't. "A psychic who dreams the future." He shook his head. "Somehow, you don't seem to be the type."
"The type." That pushed a button. Jax watched a flush of color sweep up her neck to her ears. "And exactly what type do I seem to be, Detective?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm.
He full on gave her the look he’d been surreptitiously using before, taking his time, measuring her. "Well, for one thing, you're solid."
"Solid." The word came out of her mouth as if she'd tasted something nasty.
Jackson gestured, sweeping her head to toe. "Yeah, you know, full of common sense. Steady, dependable."
Her jaw dropped. "Detective Jackson--"
"You don't strike me as someone who would be into weird stuff. Next you're going to tell me aliens exist."
She swallowed whatever retort she’d been about to make, leaving Jax slightly disappointed. It would have been refreshing to hear a crude word come from that lovely, cultured mouth.
The spark in her whiskey eyes held a wealth of meaning, however. "Detective Jackson. For someone who supposedly makes a career out of reading people, you couldn't be further away from the truth."
"What truth? Yours?" He climbed to his feet, leaning over the desk toward her. "Dreams and psychics and preordained murder? I don't think so."
She joined him in getting to her feet. "Just because you're too narrow-minded to believe it doesn’t make a thing less true."
"You know what I believe? I believe your dinner disagreed with you, causing you to have a nightmare. And something on your conscience made you come here to report it."
He put down his pen. "I'm sorry you’re having nightmares, Ms. Legere," he continued in a tone that unapologetically doubted everything about her. "I'm certainly not an expert in that department, but I'd recommend some sleep aids, maybe even a change in diet."
"You arrogant, thickheaded son-of-a--" She bit back her words with an effort. Her eyes sparked fire as her hand came up in a fist.
Blowing out a breath, she stepped back, forcing her hand back down to her side. "You don't know me. You don't know anything about me. Save your snap judgments for criminals."
She gathered her expensive belongings and whirled for the door, but speared him with a withering glance. "I've done what I came here to do, despite being insulted by some Neanderthal. What you do with the information is entirely up to you. I just hope it's not too late when you decide I'm telling the truth."
"Ms. Legere?"
She spun back to face him. "Yes?"
He smiled, though he no longer saw humor in the situation. "Trust me on one thing: If it is too late, you'll be the first to know."
Her eyes darkened. "Of course I'll be the first to know. I'm psychic, remember?"