Nightwalker. Heather Graham
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said.
“He didn’t ask me out, for one thing.”
“He will,” Reggie said confidently.
Jessy smiled and took another sip of the tea. It all seemed distant now, as if it had all happened to someone else. The man, Tanner Green, falling on her…dying.
“What a night,” Sandra said quietly. “What you told Timothy…Before all that happened, you made enough to keep him at the home?”
Jessy smiled falteringly. “It was amazing. It never happened before, and I’m sure it will never happen again, but yes, I made enough to keep Timothy there for the year.”
Sandra gasped. “You made that much? You did bet your house!”
Jessy shook her head. “No, honestly, I wasn’t that crazy. It wasn’t my money I was betting. I was rolling well, so other people kept throwing money down for me.”
“It’s all so unbelievable,” Sandra said. “All that money. And then a man dying on you. That is one bizarre night.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “And no one saw anything?”
“Not that I know of. He plowed into me, and he…died,” Jessy said.
They all sat in silence for a long moment, and then Sandra said, “All right, we’re up and out of here. If you’re sure you’re okay…?”
Jessy nodded.
“I still feel creeped out.” Reggie shivered suddenly. “I mean…whoever murdered that guy is still out there, right?”
Jessy felt a chill streak down her spine. Suddenly, as if she were reliving the moment, she could see Tanner Green’s face, the lips moving, the eyes going dim, clearly before her. Shaking herself to drive the image out of her mind, she stood to see them out. “I’m fine. We’ll all forget it in a couple of days,” she lied, knowing she would never forget the events of tonight.
“Call me. Let me know if…well, if there’s anything I can do,” Sandra said.
“Will do,” Jessy assured her. She watched as the two women made it into Sandra’s car, then carefully closed and locked the door. She suddenly wished she had an alarm system, but until tonight, it would have been wasted money, considering the cost of Timothy’s care.
With the door closed and locked, she checked in on Timothy, who had dressed for bed properly and was sleeping soundly.
She went on to her own room, thankful for the house. It had belonged to her parents, who had bought it long before Henderson became a popular spot to live. The courtyard was pebbled, with cacti here and there, along with statuary they had bought through the years. The living room held her mother’s old piano, and had glass doors that led out to the small patio and pool area. She had a kitchen, dining room, family room, three bedrooms and an office.
Tonight, however, she wished that she also had an alarm.
She tried to tell herself that it was ridiculous to feel fear. Whoever had killed Tanner Green surely had no interest in her. She hadn’t seen anything. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But since Timothy was going to get to live happily because of the evening, she couldn’t really regret it.
As she curled up in her own bed, she found herself thinking about Dillon Wolf. She’d been intrigued by him, attracted to him, when he had just been standing there. That he had reappeared in time to help her up from the table was her own little minor miracle.
Why the hell hadn’t she let him drive her home?
Because there would have been no point, she told herself. She didn’t even have time to date. She was responsible for Timothy, for one thing, and she didn’t mind that. Not at all. He had always been there for her, so it made her happy that now she could be there for him. And now she was so accustomed to working, trying to catch whatever overtime came along, that she barely remembered dating, much less having a relationship, and she wouldn’t know how to date anymore, anyway, even if the opportunity presented itself.
It had been nice to touch him, though. To be touched. To feel the fabric of his jacket. To…
She closed her eyes.
And allowed herself to dream about the man named Wolf.
But in the middle of the dream, just as Dillon Wolf was smiling at her, things suddenly changed. She was at the table again, and everything seemed to shrink away. She turned, and Tanner Green was stumbling toward her. Straight at her. She could almost feel his crushing weight against her again. See his eyes staring into hers just before the light of life faded from them for good.
She saw his mouth moving, and once again heard the word he had whispered.
Indigo.
She woke with a start. It was still night, and the darkness seemed to press down on her. She was suddenly certain that something was there with her, hidden in the shadows, that she was being watched.
She leaped out of bed and dived for her light switch. The room jumped into view, and she blinked against the sudden harshness, tense, her body ready to spring.
But there was no one there. The room was empty.
She felt foolish, but she went into her bathroom, took the bloodied, discarded clothing and carried it into the kitchen, where she placed it in a larger trash bag, which she hauled out into the garage. She knew it was silly, but she wanted that reminder of the evening as far away as she could get it. Then she went back to bed, where she turned on her small bedroom TV and didn’t turn off the light.
It occurred to her then that no one had asked her if the dying man had said anything.
And so she was the only one who knew that he had spoken that single word.
Indigo.
Emil Landon was a man of an indeterminate age; he might have been a worn thirty something, or a fit man in his fifties. Because Adam Harrison—owner and director of Harrison Investigations, the rather unique private investigations firm that was Dillon’s actual employer——had contacts with access to just about any record on any human being living in the United States and beyond, he knew that Landon was forty-eight, had married and divorced three wives, had fathered one child who lived in Dublin with his mother, and had inherited millions from a grandfather who had been a Turkish oil baron. Sound real-estate investments had added to those millions. He liked to be a player. He liked the clothing and the cars, and the women who followed the call of big money. But he wasn’t a lucky gambler himself, so he’d discovered a way to profit from the propensity of most men to count on luck’s eventual appearance, gamble—and lose. He’d opened his own casino and was in the process of negotiations to create more gambling meccas, something of a sore point in the community. On his mother’s side, he could provide the proper court-required documents to prove that he was one thirty-second Paiute—in fact, he only needed to be one sixty-fourth—which gave him the right to build casinos on Indian land, where he would no doubt see to it that the proceeds of his venture stayed in his pockets and didn’t reach the Indian nation that should benefit from it.
Dillon hadn’t followed much of the legal process; he had seen it far too often already. He didn’t think much of Emil Landon, and he still wasn’t sure why a man as moral as Adam Harrison had wanted him to take the case.
Dillon knew plenty of wealthy people who were also extremely responsible with their money and were courteous to those around them, no matter what their financial or social status.
Emil Landon wasn’t one of them.
Now Landon was convinced that someone was trying to kill him, and Dillon figured that the man had been a jerk to enough people during his life that there might easily be several who found the thought of killing him appealing. But that was the thing. Most people thought about killing someone but didn’t actually take steps to do it. Revenge was frequently savored sweetly in the mind. Most people had a conscience, and even if they didn’t, they didn’t have the