Dream Man Read online

  “Call the Orlando Police Department,” Dane said tersely. “Ask for me.”

  “No. If you want any information about Ms. Keen, you’ll have to apply for it in person. With the proper identification, of course. Good-bye, Detective.”

  The receiver clicked in his ear, and Dane hung up with a curse. Trammell said, “No luck?”

  “He wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “Any reason why?”

  “He said he doesn’t give out information over the phone. If I want to know anything about Marlie, I have to go to Boulder and talk to him in person.”

  Trammell shrugged. “So what’s the big deal? Go to Boulder.”

  Dane gave him an irritated look. “The LT is going to be tickled that she’s really a psychic, but there’s no way he’ll authorize a plane ticket just for a background check on someone who isn’t a suspect.”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  Ten minutes later, he had the answer he’d expected. Bonness was indeed elated that his hunch about Marlie had turned out to be accurate, and he even gloated a bit that he must have a touch of psychic ability himself. Dane barely managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at that. But no way could the lieutenant justify the cost of sending Dane to Colorado to check out something that didn’t really need checking out. They already had all the verification they needed, didn’t they? He dismissed the six missing years as being unimportant. The budget was tight, and they needed all the resources they had to be used tracking down criminals, not snooping into the private lives of people who weren’t doing anything wrong.

  But those six years were important to Dane. “Do you have any objection if I take off tomorrow and go on my own?”

  Bonness looked startled. “You mean pay your own way?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Well, no, I don’t guess there’s any problem, except that you’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “This is related. And the investigation isn’t going anywhere. We have no evidence, no motive, no suspects.”

  Bonness sighed. “Take off, then. But just tomorrow. I want you back here by Friday morning.”

  “No problem.”

  Dane returned to his desk and told Trammell what was happening, then got on the phone again. He had to call three airlines before he found an available flight. After booking his ticket, he called Professor Ewell again and tersely informed him when he would be arriving.

  Dane felt naked without the Beretta, but since he wasn’t traveling in any official capacity, he reluctantly left it at home. He couldn’t make himself travel without any weapon, though; he carried a pocketknife that was only a little larger than normal, with nothing else about its appearance that was out of the ordinary, but which had a single blade made from an alloy stronger than steel. The knife also had perfect balance, a requisite for a throwing knife. Throwing a blade was an arcane little skill he had taught himself, on the theory that it might come in handy someday. The knife wasn’t the equal of a pistol, but it was better than nothing.

  He was a nervous flier. It wasn’t the flying itself that got to him, but the strain of being trapped in a small space with so many strangers. He couldn’t leave old habits behind, couldn’t draw a boundary between on-duty and off-duty. He was the same man regardless. That meant he automatically watched everyone, subconsciously noting any erratic behavior, studying appearance, constantly evaluating the situation. The situation was boring, but that didn’t mean he could stop. Just as sure as he let his guard down, something bad would happen; it was an unwritten law.

  He had taken the earliest flight out. Because of the two-hour time difference between Orlando and Colorado, he arrived in Denver well before lunch. He had no luggage, so all he had to do was go to the car-rental desk and lease a car for the day. Boulder was about twentyfive miles to the northwest, interstate all the way.

  Once in Boulder, he stopped to look up the address of the Institute and ask for directions. With one thing and another, it was twelve-thirty when he drove up to the Institute. There were no fences, no gates; his policeman’s eye noted that the security measures were skimpy, at best. There was an alarm wired to the door, but nothing any third-rate burglar couldn’t disarm. INSTITUTE OF PARAPSYCHOLOGY was neatly painted in large block letters on the double glass doors. He pushed the doors open and noted that there was no tone to signal his entrance. It looked as if anyone could walk in off the street.

  About twenty feet up the hallway was an office on the left, the door open. Dane approached it and stood for a moment in the doorway, silently observing a neat, middle-aged woman in front of a computer, typing a letter while she concentrated on what she was hearing through the headset plugged into her ears. Dane cleared his throat, and she glanced up, a smile breaking like sunshine. “Oh, hi. Have you been waiting long?”

  “No, I just have walked up.” She had a very cheerful face, and he found himself smiling back at her. This place seemed to be as short on formality as it was on security. “I’m Dane Hollister, Orlando PD. I’m here to see Professor Sterling Ewell.”

  “I’ll give him a call to let him know you’re here. He was expecting you, so he brought his lunch today instead of going out.”

  The artlessness of that reply made him smile again. Her brown eyes twinkled at him. “He’s my husband,” she confided. “I can deflate his dignity if I want to, not that he gives a hoot.” She picked up a phone and punched two numbers. “Sterling, Detective Hollister is here. Okay.”

  She hung up the phone. “Go on back to his office. I would take you myself, but I’m swamped today. Take the next corridor to the right, and his is the office on the right at the very end of the hall.”

  “Thanks,” he said, winking at her as he left. To his amusement, she winked back.

  Professor Ewell was a tall, barrel-chested man with thick white hair and a lined face that wore his years with grace. Like his wife, he seemed a very cheerful man, and he wasn’t very big on formality either. He was wearing an ancient pair of chinos and a faded chambray shirt, and his feet were clad in scuffed boots. Dane immediately felt a sense of kinship, for the professor evidently ranked clothing fairly low on his list of priorities. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence and humor, but he regarded Dane very sharply for a long minute before some hitherto unnoticed suspicion faded away.

  With a jolt, Dane understood. “All of that about tabloid reporters was bullshit,” he said. “You’re …” He paused, unwilling to accuse the professor of being something he didn’t really believe in.

  “Psychic,” Professor Ewell supplied benignly. He waved a large hand at a comfortable-looking chair. “Sit down, sit down.” When Dane had complied, he resumed his own seat. “Not very much,” he said. “Nothing like some of the people I work with. But my one small talent is that I’m very good at reading people when I meet them in person. Because of that, I don’t give out any information over the telephone. My long-distance instincts are deplorable.” He smiled ruefully.

  “No reading minds, or anything like that?”

  The professor chuckled. “No, you can relax. Telepathy definitely isn’t one of my talents, as my wife will gladly tell you. Now, tell me about Marlie. How is she?”

  “I’d hoped you would give me information about her,” Dane said dryly.

  “You haven’t asked anything yet,” the professor pointed out. “I have.”

  Dane was torn between impatience and humor. There was something in the good doctor that reminded him very much of an impudent six-year-old. He let humor get the upper edge, and gave in to the professor’s air of expectancy. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I’m not her favorite person,” he admitted, rubbing his jaw. “When I saw her yesterday morning, she told me not to set foot on her property again unless I had a warrant.”

  The professor sighed blissfully. “That’s Marlie. I was afraid the trauma might have permanently damaged her. She can be very patient, when she wants, but sometimes she can be a bit t