The Man For Maggie

Maggie Kovacs. Her father had been the one whose plane had crashed, but she’d been the one who’d hit the headlines.

He remembered the sergeant on the case, if you could call it a case—more like a retrieval job for the police divers, with a mop-up by the air-accident inspector.

Until Maggie had reached the scene.

To hear Sergeant Gorman tell it, she’d been out of her tree. Gorman was a bluff, red-faced character who looked as if he’d be more at home on top of a tractor than riding in a cop car. Still, it took all types. The man was retired now, and Max reasoned he’d only been handed the Kovacs case to get him out from behind his desk. The rest had been a bonus. The guy was probably still raising a few laughs at Maggie’s expense.

Maggie.

Sometimes prejudice got in the way of reality. Where were the hoop earrings and spangled head scarf? The “cross my palm with silver, mister?” Maggie didn’t look anything like the advertisements with their 0900 numbers littering the tabloids and women’s magazines. Madam Zelda and the likes, who’d read your fortune from cards, or your future from the vibes singing down the phone line, and charge you $3.95 a minute for the privilege. For a while there he’d almost let them get away with annihilating his future. They’d certainly robbed him of a fortune—and his marriage. It was something he’d never forgive or forget. Like the day he’d opened the final demand from the phone company, and felt the bottom drop out of his world.

He downed his first whiskey while they poured Jo’s beer, and was into his second before he reached the table. The heat entered his stomach and had spread to his veins by the time he sat down. He caught Jo’s glance and knew she’d be speculating about the second drink. Usually he nursed one glassful till the ice melted and the whiskey was as hot inside the glass as when it hit his tonsils.

“So…” he sighed. “Good-looking woman, Maggie. Catching up on old times, were you?” He tossed back another mouthful of the desperate man’s anesthetic and waited for Jo’s reply. The bombshell wasn’t unexpected; he just wasn’t ready for it to go off this soon.

“She came to see me about a murder. Three of them, to be precise.”

“Cut the crap, Jo. Next you’re going to tell me she dreamed them!”

“She’s psychic.”

“Then you’re going to tell me you believe in all this mumbo jumbo.” Max took another swallow. The effects of the anesthetic were wearing off quickly. He’d known Jo for five years now. Worked with her on and off for three of them. She was a good cop, with a quick, keen mind. She never flinched, even when things were at their hairiest. But believing in this psychic twaddle had to be a female thing.

“For heaven’s sake! This is a new age, Max. Sooner or later you’ll have to give in and open your mind to the possibilities. Hell, I like my job too much to put it on the block, but I’ve known Maggie all my life. You I’ve only known long enough to learn how hard you can dig in your heels.”

“I’m not interested in a rundown on her dreams. I’m not a shrink. Tell her to try the yellow pages.” He’d had enough on his plate with three unsolved murders in as many months. Not even a fool could deny they were connected, and he was no fool. Which was a good reason for staying away from anything that smacked of paranormal. Now if only he could convince his libido of the same thing where Maggie was concerned, he might be a damn sight nearer to suppressing the urge to get up and follow her out the door.

“Well, don’t get your Jockeys in a twist. It just so happens she doesn’t want to speak to you, either.” An edge of satisfaction colored Jo’s voice as she tossed the ball back at him.

“So what was this tonight? A social call, or is she after a little more publicity to keep the punters rolling in?” At the base of his skull a pain throbbed, and he wondered who he was really trying to hurt—Jo, Maggie or himself? “You thinking of flagging the police and taking up marketing, Jo?” The steel in his voice would have made a wiser woman back off. Not Jo.

“Okay, Max. Let it all hang out, spill your guts,” she retorted.

Jo’s breasts heaved under her blue chambray shirt and spread the zipper edging of her leather jacket farther apart. Boy, she was angry with him! Max had never seen her this mad before. How much would it take to make her blow her stack? There was a calm, calculating part of his brain that thought maybe this was a good thing. Cruel, but good. Good for him.

He’d been thinking for a while now that maybe Jo was getting too fond of him. And he wasn’t the only one to notice, judging by a few of the comments written on the men’s room walls. The only thing to cut that out would be to make the place unisex.

At one stage he’d toyed with the idea of getting her a sideways promotion out of Central. A word in the right ear was all it would take. But was it fair to nix a good cop’s career, just because she thought the sun shone on his sorry behind?

“I knew who she was the moment you said her name,” Max growled. “Maggie’s reputation precedes her. If you’d been here fifteen months ago you’d know to keep away from her, unless you actually want your credibility as a cop to go down the drain.” He swallowed the last mouthful in his glass. Who was he trying to remind, Jo or himself? His divorce was six months old, and the only relationships he’d had in the last two and a half years had been the types that pass in the night. A quick tumble in the sheets and a few more weeks relief were all he got out of them. One look at Maggie and he could tell that wouldn’t be enough.

“Just because I haven’t seen her in three years doesn’t mean we haven’t been in touch. I can read, and not just the rubbish Gorman let slip and the media blew all out of proportion. Maggie wrote me about it, about the crank calls and the lies. I was trying to persuade her to tell you about the dreams when you arrived.”

“Good one! You’d send her to me when you know my opinion of these fakers.”

“I thought if you saw her face-to-face—”

“It takes more than a pretty face to bowl me over.”

“Tell me about it. I know it never worked for me.”

“Don’t let’s get into that, Jo. You’re a friend. Friends last longer than lovers.” He hoped Jo would take the words as they were meant and not as a put-down. It was the first time either of them had openly acknowledged her infatuation.

Jo shrugged and laughed ruefully. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. But we’re getting off the subject. I’m worried about Maggie. She sounded desperate. Didn’t you notice how edgy she was? Once you arrived she couldn’t wait to get away.”

“I thought it was my lethal personality she couldn’t stand.”

“Well… She doesn’t like cops, but her manners are usually better than that.”

“You’re a cop.”

“Yeah, but we were at boarding school together and we both come from the same background. It makes a difference.”

“I didn’t know your family made wine.”

“I was talking about Dalmatia. Both our families came from there originally. In some ways Maggie’s father hadn’t changed much from the old folks who first settled there. He had a closed mind on some things.” Jo tilted her head to one side, her expression serious as she looked him up and down. “Remind you of anyone? Frank Kovacs forbade her to talk about her dreams. Not that he didn’t love her—he adored her. It was the only thing he was ever strict over. Said he only did it to protect her. Seems he had to die to prove himself right.”

Max watched Jo swallow, lick her lips, then swallow another mouthful of beer. He could tell she wasn’t finished, so he waited and said nothing.

“I know these dreams do come true. But I can’t help her this time. I haven’t enough clout, but you do. And I’m guessing from the way Maggie’s acting, she’s going to have to give in and pay you a visit.” Jo leaned across the table and gripped his sleeved arm just above the wrist. By the strength of her fingers, he guessed her desperation was as strong as Maggie’s. “I need you to believe she got nothing from me. Nothing, yet she knows everything, down to the red scarves.”

Max felt his stomach clench and acid rise. Heartburn.

Could he believe Jo? The possibility posed too many questions he didn’t want answered. He’d rather keep Maggie in a box marked This One Makes You Hard Just by Being in the Same Room. He’d rather plan strategies to get her into his bed. To start figuring out the way her mind worked would draw him in too deep, and no amount of paddling would keep him near the surface. Not unless it was the pale olive, satin skin covering Maggie’s surface from head to toe.

There had to be another explanation. Damned if he could think what it might be, though. To give credence to what he’d just heard meant admitting he’d been wrong about a whole lot of other things, including his wife and his marriage, and he wasn’t ready for that just yet…or ever.

“There must have been a leak. Check the newspapers—we might have missed something. If someone on the case has a loose mouth, your job is to find out who. And I need answers by this time tomorrow. Heaven help us if this gets out,” Max muttered, knowing that, so far, heaven was the only place they hadn’t gone for help. That sounded too much like the area he was trying to avoid.

“So, you believe there could be a leak? And you’re satisfied it’s not me?”

“No, I’m not. You’d better work your little butt off and find me someone, or there’s only one conclusion I can make.”

“Great! I give you a gift from the gods and now you’re going to make me pay for it.”

A blast of raucous laughter had them both turning toward the bar. Max recognized the bulk of their team, milling around the barman, singing out their orders. “C’mon, Jo. You might as well start right now.”

“Why do I have to be the spy?” she complained, getting to her feet.

“You won’t be alone. I’ll stick around for a while. Check first for anyone who might have worked with Gorman. Maybe you’re not the only cop Maggie knows. If it’ll help, I’ll shout the next round. The guys needed some downtime to relax and work some of the frustration out of their systems, so I gave them tonight off.”

Max stood up and, as he did so, caught sight of a scarf under his feet. He reached down and picked up the scrap of silk, patterned like a leopard in black, tan and gold. “This yours?” he asked.

“No, it’s Maggie’s.” Jo held out her hand. “I’ll take it.”

Max rolled the long strip of silk around his fingers and released Maggie’s scent. It filled his head like a haunting refrain he couldn’t shake. “Would she have gone back up north tonight?”

“No. She wouldn’t drink and drive, and I know she walked here from the apartment Frank had in the Viaduct Quay tower. She’ll probably stay the night there.”