CHAPTER TWO

. . . .

. . .

Juliet, carrying a windbreaker for Carlton (wearing her own already), a plate of raisin bread and a thermos of coffee, was glad for the lights in the wide hall—dim though they were—to guide her way.

She was only mildly annoyed with Carlton now. She really did understand his reluctance to step onto this particular thin ice; it was just that he was so fearless about everything else. Carlton was the first to run toward trouble, and even in his personal life he'd shown great confidence, particularly in trying to save his marriage.

Would it make things easier if she told him she liked the kiss and wanted more? A lot more? Like maybe long-term more?

Possibly, but it might also send him running, and she couldn't risk that. As hard as he worked to save his marriage, he'd worked equally hard to remain remote in her first years as his partner. Too wounded by the outing of his relationship with Lucinda Barry, he was clearly determined to keep his new female partner at a sufficient emotional distance.

Which is why it was a bit ironic that he'd accused her of using the word 'partner' to keep him at bay.

The painting caught her eye, and she paused to study the scowling expression of the Pumphrey scion. Charity, down in the kitchen as Juliet passed through, said it was Cartavious III, who was just eighteen when the painting was commissioned in 1920. Then she thrust the plate of raisin bread upon her, gave her the thermos and excused herself rapidly.

The woman was sweet but high-strung, she thought, and resolved to ferret out the reason for it some other time. Like daylight. In a warmer location.

Cartavious was a dark-eyed handsome youth despite his obvious ill temper, and she glanced at the equally handsome dog.

But then she realized, as she studied the pair, that the dog was simply standing next to his owner.

The cold around her deepened as what she saw took hold in her brain: Cartavious wasn't touching the dog's collar at all.

Juliet frowned. She was dead sure she and Carlton had both noted how tightly Cartavious had gripped the collar… wasn't she? Hadn't they?

Feeling a bit uncomfortable—because if she wasn't merely losing her mind, then she was being screwed with—she moved back from the painting and headed to the corner room.

Why is that door closed? She'd barely formed the thought when it was yanked open from inside and Carlton hurtled out.

"Juliet!" he said breathlessly, and that was odd too: he rarely used her first name.

But she'd have to savor that later. "What is it? Did the Grays receive a shipment?" She started past him and he caught her arm to stop her advancement.

Looking full at him, she registered his state of shock. It was a rare sight, Carlton Lassiter nonplussed.

"What is it?" she repeated more gently, putting her own heebie-jeebies aside.

His eyes were huge but he steadied himself, taking one very deep breath and then another one before letting go of her arm. "Nothing. I just… did you close this door when you left?"

"You know I didn't."

Carlton's expression was unreadable. "Are Spencer and Guster around here somewhere?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

Muttering that he was cracking up, he turned from her and returned to the room, pausing in the doorway briefly.

"Carlton," she persisted. "What happened?"

"I have no idea."

He wasn't going to talk about it. But as she watched, he opened the door wide and dragged the other wingback chair over in front of it. "Let's see the damn thing close now," he grumbled.

Hmm. Whatever he'd experienced, at least his natural irritability was returning. Good sign?

She set the plate on the wide windowsill near his camera, placing the thermos next to it. Offering the windbreaker, she waited for him to put on the extra layer of warmth. She'd ask what happened later, but right now she had a more urgent question.

"Um, that painting out there?"

He zipped up the jacket. "Angry young man clutching dog?"

She started to tell him, and then thought, no, wait, let him see for himself. In case I imagined it.

"Come here," she said, and went back to the hall. Stopping in front of the portrait, she simply gestured and waited for his comment.

Carlton's eyebrows went up. "Huh."

"You see it?"

"I see he's smiling," he said slowly. "I don't remember him smiling before."

"No, I meant—" She stopped, heebie-jeebies back and cackling.

Damn if he wasn't right: Cartavious Pumphrey III was smiling.

"I meant the dog," she whispered.

Beside her, she could feel Carlton's rapid intake of breath.

Long moments passed while they stared at the painting of the smiling young man and the unrestrained dog.

Longer moments passed after that.

"O'Hara," he said firmly, "we are being played. Let's get back to work."

"Played? How? Someone's switching paintings to mess with us?" It came out in a near screech.

"Franklin and Charity." He went back to the sitting room and she followed. "Or the guys who did the recon on the—son of a bitch," he snapped.

Juliet didn't need him to spell it out: the lamp in the corner was on.

Now she was aggravated, and stalked across the room to unplug the stupid thing once and for all.

But when she followed the cord back to the outlet, a new coldness settled down over her.

"Carlton."

"What?"

"It's not even plugged in." The end of the cord was a good two feet from the nearest outlet.

Carlton knelt beside her, and again his expressive blue eyes were huge.

But—again—he collected himself. Holding out a hand, he helped her rise with him, and then without a word he unscrewed the hot bulb from the lamp and set it on the floor against the wall.

With the room once again in darkness (and, uh, why exactly was that good?), Juliet found herself standing closer to Carlton than she normally would.

"If someone's screwing around with us," she ventured cautiously, "who is it?"

"I don't know." His hand brushed hers as he turned slightly, and she resisted the urge to grab it and hold on. "But we're here to do a job and we're going to do it."

Okay. He was right. They would work.

"Coffee will help, then." She went to the other window and picked up the thermos. "You don't mind sharing the cup? Charity wanted to give me another one but I wasn't sure I could carry everything without dropping it."

She barely even noticed him reaching up to steady her shaking hand as she poured, but her heart filed the kind gesture away for later.

"You first." She managed to hand him the cup without spilling. "She said the painting is of Cartavious III when he was eighteen."

"Teenager," he commented. "That explains the mood swings."

Juliet stared at him a moment and then laughed, because it was the funniest thing she'd heard in hours and ten times funnier because it came from Carlton, who was probably as spooked as she was but could still snark like a pro.

He smiled at her over the cup and drank it down, then poured another for her. "Drink up." He reached for the plate. "Generous with coffee, stingy with raisin bread?"

"Come on. I thought she cut the slices really big," she protested.

He held the plate up so she could see it better, and there was just one slice. "Don't tell me," he said, frowning at her frown.

"There were two." She sounded weak. "And no, I didn't scarf one down on the way up here."

"Teenagers have big appetites," he said, but not quite so confidently. Breaking the slice, he gave her one half and took a bite out of the other. "Are we sure it's not Spencer messing with us?"

"Pretty sure. I didn't tell him about this case and I think he and Gus were going to something called Freddy's Halloween The 13th. Supposed to be all the Halloween movies alternating with Friday the 13th and Nightmare On Elm Street."

He cocked one eyebrow. "Can their lungs stand that much screaming?"

She shrugged. "I think Shawn was taking along an oxygen tank to be on the safe side."

"Ah." He glanced out the window, where the Grays were stirring; Helena got up and Michael put her chair away, and Geoff paced the drive slowly.

"Carlton, please tell me what happened while I was gone." She said it very quietly, and prayed he would answer even if it was something she didn't really want to hear.

Without looking at her, he said just as quietly, "I realized the door was closed, and as I was about to open it, I felt a hand on my shoulder."

She absorbed the impossibility of his words: they were alone up here. They'd looked in every room and no one else was here or could have come into the room while she was gone without him knowing.

But Carlton wouldn't lie, and he wasn't gullible, and if he said it happened, it happened.

In profile, he was very still, and while she couldn't quite make out the exact shade of blue in those all-expressive eyes, she knew for him to tell her meant he trusted her.

At least with this. As a partner.

The way she meant it.

. . . .

. . .

The room remained cold and dark. No doors closed, no lamps lit, no vanishing slices of raisin bread. They stayed where they were—no checking the painting for changes they'd surely imagined—and watched the Grays.

She and Carlton finished off the coffee purely for its warmth by ten. She needed to pee desperately by half past ten.

"Here's a visitor," he said, as a man cleared the tree which partly obscured the driveway and rounded the corner to the back of the house. Helena had long since gone in, but the Gray brothers were still loitering.

She came to his window—the temperature was at least one degree warmer next to him—even though she could see the tableau perfectly well from her own. "Looks like Sabin Findley."

"Yep, that's him."

He was known for moving questionably-legal items between Mexico and Nevada, and had darkened the doors of the SBPD more than once for questioning which always led nowhere.

Carlton's grin was mirthless. "I'd love to catch this guy."

"So would I, but so far they're just shaking hands."

Findley refused a chair when offered, standing close to Geoff Gray and talking for a few minutes. A few hand gestures later, he glanced at his watch and Gray did the same, and he nodded firmly and strode off.

"He'll be back," Carlton deduced.

"So will I." At his glance, she explained, "I've got to find a bathroom."

"We passed one near the head of the stairs, if I recall." He nodded his head toward the door. "And, uh, if that's closed when you come back, just go home."

She tried to be amused and failed, but managed a smile for him anyway.

The hallway seemed a lot longer than before, and she caught herself hesitating before passing open doorways.

You're an idiot, she warned herself. There is no one up here.

That might be the problem, whispered the ten-year-old Juliet inside her head.

She banished the frightened child to the recesses of her mind, and despite feeling a bit like JoBeth Williams in the ever-lengthening hallway in Poltergeist, finally reached her destination.

All brass and marble, the large cold bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the house, albeit less dusty than the rest of what they'd seen. Juliet made quick work of her problem, not wanting to be on her own too long.

(She had avoided looking at the painting on the way, but could not suppress a shiver as she passed.)

Washing her hands, she thought about how to get Carlton back on track to the incident she wanted to discuss—and wanted very much to repeat—and knew she had to do it tonight, because this was the one time he could not flee. They had to be here, and they had to be here together, and no little chill in the air and late-night imaginings could get in the way.

Pleasing warmth infused her as she remembered his kiss: so very sudden and delicious and eye-opening and hope-engendering. Recalling the heat of his body brought heat to hers now.

Juliet glanced into the mirror, and that warmth fell away immediately and turned to ice again.

There was a young woman behind her.

Sobbing violently.

Covered with blood.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet raced into the room and into his arms and Carlton held her, not having to ask if something happened, because duh. He breathed in her scent and held her tightly, because that's what she needed—no matter how much his instincts were telling him to go and slay the beast.

After a few moments, after her trembling subsided, she took a step back—not far—and with her hands still clutching his arms, said relatively evenly, "If I have to pee again before three a.m., you are coming into the damned bathroom with me."

Carlton blinked. That was taking partner-bonding a bit further than he was prepared to go. "What happened?"

She looked down, as if speaking to his windbreaker rather than to him. "I saw a woman in the mirror. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub crying. I couldn't hear it, but I could see it, and she had blood all over her clothes."

"She was injured?" Or dead, he wondered, cursing the way this night was affecting his imagination.

"I didn't stop to ask. When I turned around, there was no one there." She shuddered slightly. "Carlton, tell me I'm not crazy. Please."

"You're no crazier than I am," he assured her, goosebumps on his own skin.

"Not sure that helps," she tried to joke.

"What did she look like?"

Juliet frowned—still not moving away—and took a moment to think about it. "She was dressed like a maid. She had a frilly cap and a long dress." She shivered again. "Young, too. Just a girl."

"So…" he began. "We're agreeing it was…"

He couldn't say it. In his head, it was a shout. But he couldn't say it out loud.

"A ghost." Juliet sighed. "Or I really am insane."

"You're not insane," he said, even while thinking it might be better if she was, because if she wasn't…

Never mind.

"So…" he began again. "Do we think she's the one… no." He drew himself up. Enough was enough, and this wasn't helping either one of them. "Let's not speculate."

"We have to speculate." Juliet put herself between him and the window. "We're cops. We're supposed to speculate."

"We're supposed to be watching the Grays."

"You're too good at shutting your mind off," she muttered.

Carlton was stung. "When it's necessary, yes."

"Sometimes it's not necessary." Juliet crossed her arms, glaring at him. The light from the window gave her a sort of halo. "Sometimes a person is just afraid of having a certain conversation."

"Dammit, Juliet, we are working here. And when did we quit talking about the blood-spattered woman in the mirror?"

"Juliet," she echoed. "That's twice tonight."

He clenched his jaw. "Grays. Down there. About to make some kind of deal with Sabin Findley. Our jobs."

She whispered, "Our lives."

His heart was pounding and he felt almost clammy and when a door slammed hard somewhere down the hall they both jumped.

He grabbed her arm and she grabbed his and they stared at each other for one second before joint cop training kicked in and they ran out of the room to find the source of the noise.

"It was close," he murmured, hand automatically on his weapon, knowing she was doing the same.

The hall seemed dimmer than before. Colder too.

How in the hell could it be so damned cold?

"There," she said. The second door down was closed, and he knew it had been open before.

"It was a bedroom. Big red velvet canopy bed." On the west wall, he recalled. Closet on the east wall.

They stood on either side, weapons at the ready.

"If that's Franklin or Charity," Juliet said calmly, "I'm going to be awfully sorry later about shooting them."

He gave her a grin, and on three, opened the door fast and stepped back again.

No sounds came from inside.

Juliet reached in and hit the light switch, and the red velvet room came to life.

Carlton swiftly checked out the large empty closet, and Juliet had the strength of mind to look under the bed. "Nothing. Windows closed."

"No breezes," she agreed, but wasn't happy about it.

They left the room—leaving the light on in unspoken agreement—and Juliet hesitated at the threshold.

He realized she was looking down toward the bathroom where she'd seen the crying maid, and so he went there directly, because if he couldn't be strong for Juliet tonight, there was little point in being strong for anyone. She followed without a word.

Flooding that room with light as well, he inspected it—even behind the shower curtain, although it was freaking hard to do that—and looked back to where she stood in the hall. "Clear."

She relaxed… slightly. "I left the light on when I ran out before."

Carlton paused. "I didn't want to hear that."

"Sorry," she said, sounding like a miserable little girl.

"Not your fault. And since you're here to stand guard," he muttered, "excuse me a minute." He closed the door in her startled face, because he'd had a lot of coffee too, and he might as well take this opportunity to answer Mother Nature's demands.

"Hurry up," she called nervously through the door.

"Beyond my control," he called back, and thought he heard her laugh, which was a good sign.

Zipped and at the sink, he washed his hands and didn't look in the mirror. He didn't want to, and he wasn't going to.

He didn't, turning away despite an overwhelming need to know.

(Because he did know. He knew Juliet hadn't imagined a damned thing.)

But at the door, in a terrifying replay of his moments alone in the sitting room earlier, he heard that same sighing, shifting sound somewhere behind him.

It was such a cold sound… a cold and terribly lonely sound.

I am not looking.

His veins were full of ice. He was surprised his hand didn't shatter when it touched the freezing knob, and nearly as surprised when the door opened smoothly to release him.

Juliet turned, relief evident on her lovely but too-pale face.

He said nothing about the sound, and the cold, and the fear. It wouldn't help her, and some things a man should consider awhile in the privacy of his addled mind.

They checked the rest of the rooms, knowing without discussing it that they'd find nothing but dust and unrevealed secrets in any of them. They left all the lights ablaze, and then silently walked back to their surveillance room.

The hallway was so long, he thought. It seemed to get longer every time they were in it. He concentrated on the scant warmth provided by Juliet's nearness, because that was the one comfort in all this madness.

She said, "Guess we're running up their utility bill, leaving all those lamps and chandeliers on."

He found a smile. "Guess I don't care." Together they looked back down the hall, where all the rooms were wide open and light cascaded forth. It should have had a warming effect.

Except… except one door was closed.

Speaking was an effort. "Did we miss a room?"

Juliet shook her head. "We didn't miss any."

Yet one door near the far end of the hall was firmly closed, and no light could be seen from underneath.

"We didn't miss any," she repeated faintly.

Dread overtook him—or tried; it didn't succeed completely until he looked at the painting.

It was so freakishly cold now that he could see his own breath, yet he was utterly compelled to look at the painting.

"Oh my God," Juliet whispered, genuine horror in each syllable.

Her icy hand slipped into his, and he held it without reservation.

Cartavious was smiling broadly.

But more importantly, much much more importantly, the white shirt he wore was now drenched in bright red blood.

. . . .

. . .