The Prophet

Chapter Seventeen

I hurried down the steps of Isabel’s house, happy enough to be out in the fresh air. The breeze revived me at once and cleared the vestiges of her rich—yes, cloying—perfume from my nostrils. But as I headed down the walkway, I had a notion the scent clung to my clothes. Shrugging out of my jacket, I tossed it onto the backseat of my car even as I recognized that my behavior was unreasonable and perhaps even childish.

Clearly, the woman had made an impression, and I had enough self-awareness to recognize that my jealousy played some role in the case I had begun to build against her. A case entirely without merit because there wasn’t a shred of evidence that connected her or Clementine to Robert Fremont. Unless one counted Devlin. And, honestly, wasn’t he at the root of my suspicion?

All those meaningful glances and subtle inflections had probably been nothing more than the bond between two close sisters, like the one my mother and aunt shared. That I had read so much into a very brief conversation was surely a testament to my current frame of mind. As much as I liked putting together puzzles, maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a detective, after all. Obviously, I lacked the necessary objectivity when it came to matters involving John Devlin. And all the snooping, the paranoia, the jumping to conclusions, was exhausting. I’d even imagined that I was being followed before I had ever uttered a word about gray dust or Darius Goodwine to anyone but a ghost.

None of this rationalization was at all a comfort to me. It wasn’t as if I could ring up Fremont and tell him I’d changed my mind, our arrangement just wasn’t working out for me. He’d promised to keep his distance so long as I helped him, but if I broke our agreement, I had no doubt he’d do whatever he deemed necessary to coerce my cooperation. He needed to move on and I needed to get a grip.

Forget about the Perilloux sisters, I told myself. They weren’t a part of this. I needed to forget about Devlin, too, for the moment and concentrate on what I’d learned from Dr. Shaw. He’d been a fount of information, and now I was anxious to get home to my computer to follow up. But first I needed to retrieve the book he’d loaned me from his office. I’d laid it aside when I rose to help him to his chair, and I’d left without it.

As I hurried up the drive to the side entrance, I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder at Isabel’s house. My curiosity had been assuaged, and that was the end of it. My path need never cross hers again. Clementine might be harder to avoid since she lived so near me, and I felt a momentary guilt at my willingness to discard her so easily. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for friendship, either. Being a loner was too deeply ingrained.

Layla was away from her desk, but I decided not to wait for her. Instead, I went straight back to Dr. Shaw’s office and knocked. The doors were slid back, and I hovered on the threshold, searching for him.

He wasn’t at his desk or atop the ladder. I didn’t think he’d gone far, though, because the French doors were open, and I could hear voices in the garden. I went over to let him know I’d come back for the book.

Just as I started to step through onto the terrace, his voice lifted. “You have some nerve!”

I withdrew immediately, startled by his anger. He didn’t appear to notice me, nor did his companion, the man from the blue Buick. He’d removed his sunglasses, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of his face. It finally came to me who he was, and my heart thudded anxiously. Tom Gerrity. The private detective who had once been a cop. I’d met him months ago when I’d gone to his office. Of course, at that time, Robert Fremont had posed as Gerrity. His ghost had deliberately deceived me so that I would still think him human. But in Gerrity’s office, I’d seen a picture of the three men—Gerrity, Devlin and Fremont—on the day they’d graduated from the police academy. Only one of them remained a cop, but I believed them to still be connected by circumstances revolving around Fremont’s death.

“I told you never to come here,” Dr. Shaw said coldly.

“That’s what happens when you don’t return my phone calls,” Gerrity said. “Or show up for our meeting.”

“Something came up.”

“Too bad. You don’t keep your end of the bargain, I don’t keep mine. Simple as that.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who reneged. This was over a long time ago. Why did you have to come back?”

“Times are hard, doc. In a downturn like this, fat gets trimmed. People in my line of work become expendable.”

“Your line of work? You mean dealing in filth?”

Gerrity laughed. “I’ve heard worse. At least no one can accuse me of murder.”

Murder? I shivered as his implication sank in. Dr. Shaw?

He withdrew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Gerrity. “This is the last of it. Do you understand me? Don’t ever come back here again.”

Gerrity took the envelope, glanced inside, then tucked it away. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

He gave a mock salute as he turned toward the gate and disappeared.

Dr. Shaw sat down heavily on a nearby chair and buried his face in his hands.

I didn’t know what to do. I backed away from the door as quietly as I could. The book I’d come back for had fallen to the floor beside the chair I’d vacated a little while ago. As I bent to retrieve it, I noticed a small iron bolt on the floor beneath Dr. Shaw’s desk. I started to reach for it when a hand fell on my shoulder.