The cacophony of hard rain and street traffic rose to surround her. Even if Angela did call, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear her. Below her, umbrellas ran through the downpour, yellow raincoats with hoods dashed down the avenue. What didn’t rise was the scent of exhaust, garbage and filthy roads, the rain cleansing the air, washing away the sins of the city for a short time.
Her cell never rang. Max climbed the stairs to the third level. Stupid, the security card was required for cars only, but anyone could get into the stairwells. She walked the aisles and found nothing. From below came the squeal of tires cruising the rows. But here, she was above it all, alone, an almost comforting feeling. Finally, on the fifth floor, she got lucky. Angela’s silver Jaguar sat in a space at the end, next to the wall, parked nose out. Max wondered now, as she had before, if Lance had bought her the car.
Once again retreating to the ledge overlooking the street, she used the phone, trying Witt again. Again nothing. Damn, damn, damn, the man really was ignoring her, making her pay for last night’s transgression. Well, she could do it without him. In fact, why didn’t she call the San Francisco cops? Angela might be lying near death somewhere.
“You’re psychic. Close your eyes and figure it out.” Cameron. “Use your God-given gifts.”
She almost threw herself down on the concrete and cried for joy. She wasn’t alone, not totally, completely alone. Rather than let him see that—duh, he could read her mind—she argued.
“I’ve never done something like that before.” She’d always had revealing dreams or touched something. Except when she was possessed and simply knew things about the victim. This time she didn’t even have that advantage. Not that she’d ever thought of possession as an advantage before.
“What about the trance?”
Oh that. The thing Cameron had coaxed her into doing the other night, leading Max to discover that Julia had witnessed the scene with Angela and Lance in her own office. She certainly couldn’t lie down in the middle of the parking garage and self-hypnotize.
Cameron pushed at her. “You’ve got Angela’s business card. Touch it. Use it.”
She’d memorized the number and forgotten about the card itself, still safely stowed in an inside pocket of her purse. She supposed she could use Angela’s car as a touching conduit, but the card, with its slogan, “Let Fantasy Become Reality,” seemed so much more ... Angela.
Max fished it out. With a deep breath and her palms together, she pressed the card between them. Breathing deeply three times, in, out, in, out, in, out, she saw Angela’s laughing face, drops of rain dotting cheeks free of makeup, hair slightly wet and curling around her face. She looked younger, more innocent, and very much alive.
“Is it a now picture?” Cameron asked.
Yes, the rain. It was now.
“She’s close.” A sigh of relief. She could almost smell the perfume Angela wore, fresh, nothing flowery. “She’s very near.”
Angela burst through the door from the stairway and stopped when she saw Max, though her smile didn’t fade.
“Are you by yourself?” Max wanted to know. Angela had been laughing. With someone?
Angela raised her arms. “Totally alone.”
God, the girl laughed even when on her own. Max’s insides tensed with envy. Oh, to be able to laugh all by herself. She couldn’t remember a time she’d ever done that. The back of her throat ached with want for it, and the words teach me how almost bubbled from her lips.
“What’s up?”
Max realized she’d been staring, writing her very thoughts on her own face. She wiped them away. “Julia La Russa.”
“Hmmm?” Angela reached into her purse and pulled out her keys. Her face revealed nothing. The car alarm bleeped. She moved to the driver’s side, but didn’t step between the Jag and the wall.
“Your friend, Bud Traynor, showed me a video of you with Julia.” Max paused long enough for the first statement to sink in, then added, “I also know that Lance La Russa was murdered one week ago, and you were probably the last person to see him alive.” One more beat of silence. “Except for his killer.”
The vestiges of laughter slipped from Angela’s eyes and lips. She didn’t ask how or why Bud had shown Max the video, how Max knew about the Lance connection, or even acknowledge the veiled question in Max’s words. All she said was, “Remember when I told you I liked helping people?”
“Yes.”
“Julia needed help finding herself.”
“You mean discovering that she’s a lesbian?”
“It’s not a crime, Max.”
“I didn’t say that it was.”
“But it’s not the sexual orientation alone. It’s admitting that she hated her life, hated the compromises she had to make. She’s healthier admitting the truth.” Angela couldn’t seem to help explaining.
“But you didn’t admit the truth to her, did you? That Bud Traynor paid you to get her on camera.” Max’s eyes dropped to Angela’s fingers, white as they clutched the keys. “Why are you so nervous, Angela?”
The other woman’s gaze dropped to the floor of the garage. “I love her a bit.”