Prologue

Lara Wakefield hated her gift. It had ruined her childhood, alienated her from her father, and destroyed any chance of happiness or financial security. She was a pariah, an outcast, persona non grata. Freaks always were.

On the other hand, dead people loved her.

Parking her rundown car next to an equally rundown diner, Lara sighed, then pulled the key out of the ignition. Get over it. New town. New folks. Maybe this time it'll be different.

She didn't believe that, though. After twenty-six years on this good Earth, she had enough experience to know that nothing would ever change. She was stuck, and that was all there was to it.

Buck up, kiddo. The attendant at the nearby gas station had said Joe's Diner needed a waitress. Maybe she could get the job. She could sling hamburgers, take orders, and bus tables with the best of them. Lord, she'd had enough experience, that was for sure.

Lara took a few steadying breaths, twisted her long hair into a quick bun, and got out of the car. The buzzing from the overhead electric sign caught her attention and she glanced up at it. Red and white lights flashed "Di e" ominously against the night sky--the "n" and "r" in Diner were, unfortunately, not lit.

"Die." Certainly a creepy word to have placed atop a restaurant. But then again, she had a real connection with death, didn't she?

Straightening her shoulders, Lara trudged through snow in the parking lot, then opened the diner door.

---

Chapter One

Stuart Manning wasn't fond of the sea so what the hell was he doing on a huge yacht docked in Santa Monica Bay? The answer was, of course, money, or at least the promise of money.

Following an older man who looked the epitome of a staid English butler except for his upturned mustache, Stuart walked up some stairs, then waited outside a well-polished, paneled oak door.

"It will only be a moment, sir," the man, who'd introduced himself as Godwin, said as he rapped on the door three times.

Whoever was inside didn't answer immediately, and that made Stuart frown. Hell, this joker better not be wasting his time. Even the lure of a fat retainer meant nothing if "Mr. John Smith" or whatever his real name was, didn't keep his appointments.

In fact, Stuart would've ignored the letter with the obvious alias except for one important thing: a crisp c-note tucked inside the envelope.

"C'mon in," a voice called out from behind the door.

Godwin quickly turned the gold doorknob, opening the door wide. He allowed Stuart to walk in first.

The suite was enormous. Luxurious too, as one might expect on a yacht. He stepped on a plush, royal blue carpet and scanned the elegantly furnished sitting room. A bowl of fresh fruit decorated an oval coffee table, two royal blue chairs sat next to a potted palm tree, and the view from the balcony showed scores of other yachts docked in the Villa Del Mar Marina. However, the mysterious Mr. Smith was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey." A fumbling behind floor to ceiling curtains soon revealed Stuart's prospective client. A large man, in height and breadth, strode out from behind the curtains and extended a beefy hand. Balding, probably in his late forties, he had a smile on his doughy face.

"Hey," he repeated. "Have a seat. Good to see ya."

As Stuart eased down in one of the tub-shaped chairs, Godwin bowed. "If that will be all, sir, I shall procure some refreshments."

"Yeah, sure. Ya do that, Godwin." The gofer's employer sat across from Stuart and folded his hands across a generous stomach.

After the cabin door closed, "Mr. Smith" and Stuart sat without speaking, observing each other. Observing and evaluating was what Stuart did for a living. He stared the other man down.

Mr. Rich Guy dressed like Mr. Common Man: a baggy, beige cotton, long-sleeved, pullover shirt and slightly wrinkled, khaki green trousers. The deck shoes had seen better days. His brown hair, with a touch of silver at the temples, was cut short and brushed back. No attempt was made to hide his receding hairline. These facts told Stuart that "Mr. Smith" wasn't vain, at least, not where his appearance was concerned.

His round face looked jovial, yet a determined frown line hovered around the man's thick eyebrows. This guy was nobody's patsy.

Finishing his own perusal, "Mr. Smith" reached into his pocket, then handed Stuart a business card. The only thing on it was a name.

"Bruno Dulce," Stuart read.

"It's Dul-chay, not Dul-say, eh? Let's get it right." The man folded his arms across his chest. "And you're Stuart Manning. So why don't we get down to business."

Stuart had heard of Bruno Dulce, and not in a favorable way. He was an art dealer with his base of operations on the East Coast. That was on the record. Off the record, Dulce's "employees" specialized in selling stolen goods...artwork included.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Dulce?" Stuart took care to pronounce the man's name correctly. He had no desire to antagonize someone with organized crime connections; he had enough trouble handling the ex-clients, thugs, and scum he'd already pissed off.

Dulce slowly stood. He rubbed his hand over his face, then strode over to the glass door of the balcony. The mid-morning sky seemed to demand his attention. "It's beautiful here, y'know? All this sun and palm trees to boot."

Stuart leaned back in his chair. The man wasn't ready to talk yet. Had something changed his mind? And just why did Bruno Dulce want to hire a private investigator?

"It's like this, Manning. I come to ya for--"

"Uncle Bruno, look at me!"

Well, hell, who needed prompting to look at the scrumptious lovely who'd just appeared from behind the curtains? The honey-haired vixen was dressed in an open, terrycloth robe...and nothing else, except for dangly earrings and pink and red rose petals plastered on various spots over her delectable body.

A wave of unexpected desire stabbed Stuart right in the groin. He took another look at her, then noticed she wore black panties, probably G-string. That was the extent of her wardrobe.

She pranced into the sitting area heedless of the fact that she and her "Uncle" Bruno weren't alone. But then again, maybe she loved to see grown men reduced to drooling idiots.

"I just adore taking rose petal baths. See how they stick?" She gazed down at her bountiful breasts, peeled off a petal next to her taut nipple, and handed it to Dulce.

"Jeez it, Tawnie." Dulce ran his hand back over his face and up into his hair. A sheen of wetness covered his forehead. "We're talking business here."

It was then the young woman noticed Stuart, or at least she pretended to see him for the first time. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she hid her luscious self from view. "Oh, I didn't know."

"No problem." Stuart shifted in his chair to ease the pressure of the sudden bulge in his jeans. "My pleasure, I assure you."

Dulce sprang into action. "Yeah, yeah, enough said. Go put some clothes on and take your time about it." He propelled Tawnie through the curtains and into the bedroom beyond.

As he sat back down, he wiped his hands along the arms of the chair. "My sister's kid. A change of life baby. Unknown father," he said as if that explained her exhibitionist behavior. "She and Rose just moved back from Hawaii. Tawnie still thinks she's in the tropics." He shrugged his large shoulders. "The kid's got a good heart."

"Among other attributes," Stuart couldn't help but add.

Dulce didn't even crack a smile.

Before they could continue, Godwin knocked, and was told to enter. He pushed a cart loaded with coffee, tea, the hard stuff, plus interesting looking snacks.

Stuart chose a cup of black coffee, put visions of sex-starved nymphs behind him, and settled back in his chair. A half an hour had already passed without his being any closer to knowing what this interview was all about.

He glanced at his watch, hoping to spur Dulce on.

The man took the hint. "Godwin, shut the door behind you, eh? Good. Now Manning, as to my problem. Ya see," he lowered his voice. "I had a little girl."

Stuart nodded. Past tense. So this wasn't to be a lost and found case.

Pain reflected in Dulce's heavy, dark eyes. "A beautiful little girl. Anna Marie, my pride and joy." His voice dropped. "She was only five when she was abducted."

There was more, of course, so Stuart waited.

Heartbreaking memories must've urged the man on, for he jumped up and paced the length of the stateroom. "That was ten years ago. Anna Marie was abducted and murdered."

About to ask a question, Stuart was silenced by Dulce's raised hand. "We never found her body, but we knew. We knew here..." He thumped his heart. "...that she had been murdered."

Murdered. Stuart lifted his eyebrow. Finding a child murderer wasn't exactly his specialty.

"My wife...." Dulce closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was as if he had seen the horrors of hell. "My wife--such a delicate creature--she couldn't cope. I took her away from the summer home, got her the best doctors, the best shrinks, but she didn't want to live without Anna Marie."

Dulce extended his heavy hands outward. "So I lost both my girls ten years ago."

Stuart allowed the man to grieve. To be truthful, his opinion of Bruno Dulce just went up a notch.

"So why do I want ya here, eh? Is that what you're thinking? Jeez, how do I say this?" Dulce rubbed his face so hard, he left red blotches on his skin. "I, er, I see one of those, y'know, psychics. And he says Anna Marie isn't at rest. That my girl needs for me to find her and...and give her a proper burial."

Stuart coughed. Psychics and all that other paranormal garbage was, in a word, bullshit. He phrased his next words as tactfully as he could. "I'm an investigator, Mr. Dulce. I don't locate dead people."

Dulce nodded. "True, true. And neither does the psychic. Henry, his name is. Henry Petit. Hey, if that was all it took, I'd have found my daughter years ago. No, Henry can't find Anna Marie, but he's just received information about someone who can."

"Received information," Stuart repeated. "From whom?"

Walking over to the coffee table, Dulce picked up an apple, and bit into it. He chewed two more bites, then threw it away. "From up there." He waved his hands in empty space. "From wherever it is that psychics tap into. Henry got a message that a particular person, a young woman, would be able to communicate with Anna Marie."

Holy hell, just what had Stuart got himself into? The violence of his feelings demanded an outlet, so he also got out of the chair. Instead of pacing, he walked over to the balcony door.

A seagull surfed invisible waves of air to alight atop a large, nearby yacht. The bird pecked at crumbs of food, then stared its beady eyes at him as if to say, I'm out here where the world is normal, predictable. Why are you inside with that nutcase?

Stuart ran his hand through his thick hair. Because it was so thick, it immediately sprung back into place. "Listen, Mr. Dulce, I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm not the man for this job--"

"Here." Dulce reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a check. "Here's your retainer."

The breath stuck in Stuart's throat. The amount on the check read fifty thousand dollars. Five zero zero zero zero. As he gaped at the man, he uselessly fluttered the piece of paper in his hand.

"There's another fifty thou when ya bring her to my house. That's a cool one hundred grand plus your expenses. Even more if ya stick around and help find Anna Marie." Dulce puffed out his cheeks. "So, what do ya say, Manning?"

Stuart mentally reviewed the other jobs he currently had on the docket. Mac, his associate, could handle the electronic debugging for the Claybourne clients and do the surveillance on the York child custody. He'd complain, of course, but he owed Stuart a few favors. Coco, the office manager, could ferret out details for the pending dental lawsuit. That left only the Horshack case. Ten to one, the agitated client had already changed his mind and canceled the work-order. And if that were so, then Stuart would be free to take this project.

But psychics? Stuart sank back into the chair as if he'd gone ten rounds with a boxing pro. Sucker punched, that was how he felt. But for one hundred G's he could put up with supernatural drivel, couldn't he?

Hell, yeah!

He cleared his throat, then pocketed the check. "Okay, I'm your man."

Dulce smiled, showing a row of uneven teeth.

That made Stuart a little uneasy. "I've a few questions, though. Why'd you pick me? There are scores of PIs in the directory."

The smile held. "Many reasons. Let's just say my cousin recommended ya."

"Who's your cousin?"

"Mr. Smith."

Right. Evidently Bruno Dulce could be as closed-mouthed as a clam. Stuart leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms against his thighs. "What makes this job worth one hundred grand? Escorting a, er, psychic..." Hell, he shuddered even saying the word. "What I mean to say is that's a lot of money to transport someone from locale A to locale B."

Dulce's smile beamed wider. "True, Manning. But you're going to have to do some detecting. Ya see, I don't know the woman's name. All Henry received was this intel--a young lady somehow connected with a diner on the Pennsylvania/Ohio border. Near Pennline, to be exact. The diner is old, rundown, and its name starts with the letter J."

Stuart blinked up at the man. "Connected with can mean any number of things. She could own the diner, be an employee, be a regular customer, live next to it, have someone in her family in any combination of what I just said, and on and on. And since you don't know the name, how will I single out this young lady?"

Dulce's laugh was more like a bark. He slapped Stuart on the back, then poured himself a cup of coffee. Two sugars with plenty of milk. "Henry was very clear about this. The woman in question stands out like a sore thumb. When she communicates with the dead, the air surrounding her gets funny. Supercharged with electricity, or something like that. There's a shimmering, a sort of glow that encircles her. It's like a disturbance."

"That should be easy to spot." Stuart couldn't contain his sarcasm. He massaged the bridge of his nose. "But what if she doesn't feel like holding a séance when I'm around?"

"Henry felt confident that wouldn't be a problem."

"Great." The word of a psychic. Stuart shook his head. "What, exactly, am I to tell this woman and where is your home?"

"My summer home's in Montana, near Butte. That's where Anna Marie was when she got... taken. On what to tell the woman..." Dulce shrugged again. "Tell her anything you want to get her to accompany you. Offer money, drugs, sex, whatever it'll take."

Stuart snorted. He'd be damned if he'd act as a gigolo to some radioactive, horny clairvoyant.

"So when can you get started? Another five G's if you leave tomorrow." Dulce stood in front of the window, blocking the sight of the marina.

Might as well get this over as soon as possible. He'd make the arrangements with Mac and Coco, then pack. But before that, he'd deposit the check. "Fine. I'll catch a flight out first thing tomorrow, and will let you know my progress."

"Excellent. Excellent." Dulce pressed an intercom button, which brought Godwin scurrying in. The man must've been standing right outside the door. Had his ear been to the keyhole?

"Godwin, show Mr. Manning to Karl." Then Dulce turned to Stuart. "Manning, Karl Romano manages my affairs for me. Ya need anything, ya contact him. The directions to my summer home, the travel arrangements, the extra five into your bank account--whatever ya want. Is this copacetic?"

"Er, sure." Stuart stood and shook hands with Dulce. "Identifying this woman might take awhile, though."

"Let's try to make things as speedy as possible, eh? My little girl is depending on me."

Stuart nodded, but once he was in the corridor behind Godwin, he shook his head. Grief could make a man daft. Just how sane was Bruno Dulce?

* * * *

Bruno Dulce waited fifteen minutes before pressing the intercom button for his man of business. "Hey." He nodded at Karl Romano when he came in. "What ya think of the dick?"

Dressed as sharp as a tack and as ugly as sin, Romano shrugged his broad shoulders. That was about as expressive as the man would get. Then he twisted his thick lips downward. "Pricey."

"Maybe, but Manning's right for the job. And I always pay for what I want." Bruno removed a hand-rolled cigar from his humidor, sniffed its full-bodied aroma, then sliced off the cigar's tip. After lighting it, he slowly puffed on the log. "Ahh."

He sat back and watched the smoke drift upward in the room. "Don't worry. I had him checked out. Besides," Bruno rolled the cigar around his mouth. "Henry says this guy will be helpful to the psychic."

Romano snorted. Then again, Romano never could conceal his dislike of Petit.

A rustling sound came from behind the dividing curtains. Jeez it, Tawnie had probably finished dressing and was getting ready to come out.

Bruno shook his head. Finished dressing--that was rich. His niece's idea of clothing coverage and his were two wildly separate things.

"C'mon." He pulled on Romano's arm to guide him to the door. "Let's continue our talk out on the deck."

Romano was a loyal soldier; Bruno could trust him--as far as any man could trust someone. But appealing eye-candy, especially in such a tempting package, could distract even the most loyal of soldiers.

Bruno blew out a ring of smoke as he reached the door to the yacht's main deck. He'd have to have a little word with Rose about curbing her exhibitionist daughter.

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