Always Look Twice

Olivia lunged at him, knocking him against the closet door.

Agent West cursed, rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms to the floor. She took the opportunity to knee him in the groin.

He doubled over, wincing in pain. “What is wrong with you?”

She frisked him, checked his pockets, then pulled open his shirt. Nothing. Nada. No witchcraft tools. “Your eyes were glowing earlier, and now here you are, in the room where my dad killed himself. That’s too damn weird for me.”

“My eyes? They’ve always been like that.”

“They’re your power.”

He made a face. “Well, thank you very much, but I’m not feeling particularly powerful right now.”

She thought about her premonition, the vision of them kissing in her loft. No damn way was she going to let that happen “Truce, then. But if you try anything funny, I’ll kill you.”

“Likewise.” He got to his feet, doing his best to maintain his machismo. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Olivia almost smiled. “See you around, Agent West.” With that, she left him alone, knowing this was the first time a woman had knocked him on his ass.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sheri WhiteFeather lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. She believes in the power of being a woman and thoroughly enjoys creating kick-ass heroines for the Bombshell line. But she also thrives on emotion-steeped romances, writing for Desire™ as well.

Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats – domestic and wild. Visit her website at: www. SheriWhiteFeather.com.

SHERI WHITEFEATHER

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To Tara Gavin, Melissa Jeglinski, Leslie

Wainger, Natashya Wilson and Lynda Curnyn

(the editorial Bombshells) for making this

project happen. To Irene Goodman (my agent)

for her enthusiasm and advice. To Judy Duarte

(my critique partner) for her unwavering

support while Crystal Green and I wrote our

first Bombshell novels. To Crystal (my other

critique partner) for being wonderfully neurotic

with me. To Katherine Garbera (fellow

Desirable and Bombshellite) for her expertise.

And to my readers for their interest in this story,

even while I was in the process of writing it.

For those of you curious about the supernatural

elements, I researched American Indian

witchcraft and added my own spin, blending

fact, fiction and imagination.

Chapter 1

The stainless steel table was cold. Olivia Whirlwind could almost feel the chilled metal beneath Denise Red Bow’s lifeless form. Her body had been gutted, from top to bottom, through a Y-shaped incision that crossed her chest then ran down to the top of her pubis. She looked waxy, inhuman, as surreal as a hollowed-out mannequin.

Death didn’t become her.

And neither did the autopsy room: a row of operating tables, water sloshing in sinks, surgical instruments clattering upon deaf ears.

Olivia wanted to rescue her, but it was too late. She wished she could go back in time, before the pathologist had wielded his precision blade. Before Denise Red Bow had been the third victim of the Indian Slasher.

“Special Agent West should be here any minute.”

Detective Steve Muncy’s voice interrupted the image, bringing Olivia back to the present, back to a conference room at the Los Angeles Street Police Station.

She rubbed her eyes, blinked, did her damnedest to clear her senses.

The autopsy was hours ago, but Olivia hadn’t been present. That privilege had been reserved for the Homicide Special Section detectives and the FBI profiler who’d been assigned to the case.

She sat back in her chair, knowing Agent West intended to give her a hard time. She’d yet to meet the elusive fed, but his reputation preceded him.

He didn’t like working with psychics.

So much so, he’d banned her from the autopsy room, convincing the pathologist that she didn’t belong there.

Although Olivia had been involved in the Indian Slasher investigation for months, this was West’s first day on the case. He’d arrived just in time for the autopsy, just in time to see Denise Red Bow flayed out on the table.

Well, bully for him, she thought.

Muncy bumped Olivia’s shoulder. “Riggs thinks the special agent’s a hunk.”

At the mention of her name, Detective Joyce Riggs turned, flashed a pretty smile, then told her partner to piss off.

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. Muncy and Riggs were an unlikely pair.

At forty-eight, he was short, rumpled and happily married. A dedicated detective, Muncy lived by his own set of rules, determined to solve every case the department dropped in his lap.

Riggs was just as tenacious. Only, she came in the form of a single, flirt-for-the-fun-of-it blonde. Olivia nicknamed them Columbo and Cagney, after the TV cops they reminded her of.

Suddenly the door to the conference room opened, and Olivia looked up. A striking man in his midthirties wearing a dark suit and slightly scuffed cowboy boots took center stage. He stood tall, with tanned skin, thick brown hair, chiseled features and disturbing eyes. An obscure shade of gray, they assessed her with cool reserve.

Special Agent Ian West.

There was no damn way she was going to let him intimidate her.

He greeted everyone with a nod, including Olivia. Then he slid some photographs on the table in front of her. “Ms. Whirlwind, I presume.”

“That’s right.” She didn’t bother to glance at the pictures. She knew they were from Denise Red Bow’s autopsy. “I’ve already seen them. In my mind,” she added, reminding him that she was an established psychic. That banning her from the medical examination hadn’t made a difference.

Detectives Muncy and Riggs remained silent, watching her and West.

He left the photographs in front of her. Finally she picked one up, studied it, saw that Denise’s scalp was pulled down over her face. The front quadrant of her skull had been cut away and removed. Standard autopsy stuff.

“Denise doesn’t like this,” she said, pretending the victim was making contact with her. “She preferred her brain the way it was.”

Agent West wasn’t amused, but she knew Detective Muncy appreciated her offbeat humor. They’d met ten years ago, on the night of her father’s suicide. He’d seen her at her worst.

“I heard you were a smart-ass,” West told her.

“And I heard you would try to discredit me.” Los Angeles was her turf, her city, the place where she’d been born and raised. She had every right to help the police apprehend the Indian Slasher. The faceless woman in the photograph deserved that much.

West didn’t respond. Tension buzzed between them, zapping the room like fireflies. The flag in the corner didn’t dare wave, in spite of a strong, hard blast from an air-conditioning vent.

“Olivia is FBI, too,” Muncy said, catching the profiler’s attention with a silly joke. “Full-blooded Indian.”

“I’m aware of that.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on the conference table, looking straight at her, his voice laced with a Southern-boy slant. “I assume you’re concerned about helping our people.”

“Our people?” She raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t claiming to be Indian, was he? Olivia hailed from an Oglala Lakota father and a Chiricahua Apache mother, both of whom were long gone from her life. A younger sister was her only family.

“Let me guess. Your great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess,” she said, poking fun at the oldest, most ridiculous wannabe claim that ever existed.

A cynical smile ghosted across his lips. Apparently he was familiar with the princess scenario. “I’m a card-carrying Muscogee Creek, Ms. Whirlwind.”

Who relied on his heritage when it suited him, she thought. A special agent, ready to save the day, with one-sixteenth or possibly one-eighth Native blood flowing through his veins.

But, hey, he was registered with his tribe.

“I’m impressed,” she told him.

“So I see,” he mocked. “And considering you have a lot in common with the victims in this case, you should be. A young, attractive Native American woman living and working in Los Angeles County. I’d be careful if I were you.”

“But you’re not me, are you?” Olivia knew damn well that she could shoot a flea off the back of a gnat’s ass faster than West could pull out his peter to pee. “I can take care of myself.”

He dropped his gaze to the base of her throat, where a noticeable scar made a mysterious statement. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.” Was the special agent wondering if someone had tried to slit her throat? Olivia knew how her scar affected most people and what their speculations were. Of course, he was different. He’d probably figured it out already. He’d probably seen enough wounds to know how they were inflicted. But even so, she lifted her chin, allowing him a good hard look.

He took an unabashed gander, but he didn’t let his gaze slip lower, even though her curve-clinging jumpsuit attracted plenty of attention. Olivia enjoyed dressing like a designer-clad dominatrix. It fit her daring personality, the part of her that refused to be tamed.

“Why don’t you brief me on the case?” West said, his tone a tad too condescending.

She glared at him. “I’m sure the detectives already brought you up to speed.”

“I’d really like to hear it from a psychic’s perspective.”

“Fine.” She accepted his challenge and glanced at Muncy, who leaned back in his chair, keeping his emotions in check. Riggs, on the other hand, managed a small smile. But whom the smile was intended for wasn’t quite clear.

Olivia came to her feet, walking to the front of the room. At twenty-nine she worked hard to keep her body fit, taking pride in the beauty that came from being a woman. Bulletlike, her spiky-heeled boots sounded on the floor, as deadly as her aim. A ladylike bondage belt was slung low on her hips, resting to one side. And although the Glock she routinely carried was in plain sight, she’d snagged a permit to carry a concealed weapon, something next to impossible for a California civilian.

West didn’t take a chair. He parked his butt on the edge of the table, and when Riggs cleared her throat, a blast of sexual energy ripped through Olivia’s body.

Well what do you know? The lady cop really did think the profiler was a hunk. Olivia wondered if fraternization was allowed, or if FBI agents were banned from boffing pretty blond detectives.

She glanced at his left hand, then got a quick flash of the wedding band that used to be there. She shrugged away the energy connected to it, the hurt and anger, the nights he spent alone.

West crossed his arms. “Any time you’re ready.”

Needing a distraction, Olivia messed up her hair, scattering the short, choppy layers, blocking out the profiler’s private life. “There’s been three female victims in this case,” she began. “The first two were slashed inside their L.A. homes, stabbed repeatedly, with no forced entry and no sexual assault. The third, Denise Red Bow,” she added, indicating the autopsy pictures, “was killed in the same manner. But even though she lived and worked in Hollywood, she was stabbed while house-sitting for her parents on their reservation, about 120 miles south of L.A.” Olivia paused, cursing the law. “And that’s why you were brought in. Indian Country falls under federal jurisdiction.”

“That’s right.” He uncrossed his arms. “And now here we are, one big happy family, working on this investigation together.”

She looked at Muncy and noticed the strain around his mouth. The LAPD did its own profiling. They didn’t need the FBI’s assistance.

Olivia continued the briefing, reciting information West already knew. “The killer’s calling card is an arrowhead encased in a valentine-style heart. He draws this symbol on the victim’s abdomen, on the right side, using an average black marker.”

“Have you gotten a reading on the artwork?” he asked. “Any vibes that enhance the investigation?”

Was he testing her skill? Or just hell-bent on giving her a hard time? Either way, she was used to proving herself. Most law enforcement officials—skeptical by nature and suspicious by training—didn’t believe in her ability. And those who did, like Detective Muncy, didn’t admit, at least publicly, that he consulted a psychic. The press would have a field day if they knew how many investigations she’d been involved in.

She finally answered West’s question. “No, I haven’t gotten any vibes about the Slasher’s calling card.”

“So what’s your opinion? Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Yes,” she responded, knowing full well she was talking to a highly educated man with several advanced degrees. But that didn’t make her opinion any less valuable. Olivia’s gift gave her an edge.

“Why?” he pressed. “Why a serial killer?”

“Because he perpetrated random murders, with an emotional cooling-off period in between. The victims were unrelated. They didn’t know each other,” she clarified. “And each had been slain in a different location.” She shuffled the autopsy pictures, stacking them like a deck of cards. “So far, the Slasher has gone after married women.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his MO, she thought. Single girls could be at risk, too.

“Two of our victims were cheating on their husbands,” West remarked.

“But Denise wasn’t. At least not that we know of.”

“So you think this is one killer? One man?”

Olivia nodded. “That’s the feeling I have. My intuition.”

“Why not multiple offenders? The forensic evidence is inconclusive.” A frown marred West’s forehead, carving a groove into his skin. “In fact, it’s downright weird. Footprints that appear then disappear, hair samples that test human one time and animal the next. Nothing makes any sense.” He shifted his weight. He was still perched on the edge of the table. “Do you have an answer for any of that?”

“Actually, she does.” This came from Muncy, who rose from his chair. “Olivia thinks the killer has supernatural powers.”

“Really?” West’s frown remained, deep and dark and troubled. “And do you agree with her analysis, Detective?”

“I’m inclined to.”

The profiler turned to Riggs. “And you?”

Her blue eyes locked onto his. “It’s a baffling case.”

The special agent nodded. “That it is.” He tunneled his hands through his hair, quietly perplexed. Then he addressed Olivia. “Do you think the killer is a skinwalker?”

She tilted her head. “It’s hard to say. There are other tribes besides the Navajo that have witches among them.” And his attitude confused her. Why would a man who believed in supernatural beings resent working with a psychic?

Because he envied her power, her mind answered. West wanted what she had. The ability she possessed.

“You better be careful,” he said, reminding her once again that the Slasher was attacking American Indian women.

Like her. And her sister.

She thought about Allie, about how gentle her younger sibling was. Then she glanced at West.

Suddenly his eyes, those odd gray eyes, were glowing.

Like a witch.

Twenty minutes later Olivia took the 101, engaging the gas petal, gaining speed, switching lanes, snarling at the late-day traffic.

She kept telling herself that West’s eyes were a trick of the light, an illusion. He wasn’t powerful enough to be a witch.

Darting past a poky compact, she accelerated again, her vintage Porsche purring with elation, the wind whipping through the convertible, stinging her face. And then she wondered what the hell she was doing.

Why was she on the freeway? She lived in a loft downtown, just minutes from the police station.

Suddenly her vehicle chose its own path, forcing her to fight the wheel.

Battling the entity inside her car, she screamed at it, warning it to leave her alone. Sounds from the road sliced past her ears, fast, furious, overwhelming.

Her tires hugged the lane, spinning like black holes in space. But when she saw the Highland exit, she knew.

She understood.

A ghost, a wanagi in her father’s language, was taking her to him. Not to his grave, but to the motel where he’d blown out his brains.

“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll go there.” The wheel on the Porsche was no longer locked, but her destination had been forged just the same.

She drove to the motel, a place she’d been avoiding for years. Aside from a fresh coat of paint, it looked the same, an attractive building on a side street off Sunset Boulevard, with yellow trim and a swimming pool surrounded by empty lounge chairs.

She parked in front of Room 112 and stared at the heavy beige drapes in the window.

Now what? she asked herself. What difference did this make? She’d been having visions about her dad since the night he’d killed himself.

She’d seen it happen before he’d pulled the trigger.

But her mad rush to save him had failed, even with Detective Muncy’s help. They’d called a list of motels in the Hollywood area, working in alphabetical order, checking registries, trying to pinpoint the location in her vision.

Olivia stared at the drapes again. The Z-Sleep Inn had been the last place on their list, a motel they’d never gotten the chance to call.

Instead, another guest had heard the shot and reported it to the front desk.

In the end Joseph Whirlwind had been found, alone on the bed, blood gushing out of his nose and mouth, the back of his head splattered on the wall behind him, chips of his skull imbedded in the plaster.

A biohazard removal company had cleaned up the mess, but no one could erase the recurring vision from her mind.

She looked up at the sky, knowing it was going to happen. Unable to stop it, she waited, her heart pounding with anxiety, with memories tangling like vines.

Then suddenly the familiar image sluiced through her brain, as vivid as a horror film bursting with surround sound.

She could hear her father’s erratic breathing. He paced the room, passing the unmade bed. The quilt was a pleasant shade of blue, mottled with a green-and-yellow design. Joseph wanted to shred it.

Edgy, he glanced at the.44 Magnum on the night-stand. It was an old gun, a weapon he’d had since the seventies. Dirty Harry style, he thought, wishing he’d had a career like Clint Eastwood.

But Joseph was Lakota, an actor who refused to play parts that stereotyped his people. His agent kept telling him to get over it, to take whatever work he could find.

Joseph shook his head. He had pride. And honor.

He picked up the note he’d written to his daughters, studying it one more time. He’d tried to word it simply, to refrain from the drama that had destroyed his life.

Steeped in emotion, he tucked it into an envelope, holding it, ever so briefly, against his heart. His girls were adults now, young women old enough to take care of themselves. He wasn’t abandoning them. He was freeing them from the depression that swallowed his soul. Besides, he told himself, he was already dead. He’d ceased to exist on the day his wife had left him for another man.

When he climbed onto the bed and reached for the pistol, Olivia’s heart went weak.

Don’t do it, Daddy.

She opened her eyes, but the image wouldn’t go away. She wanted to hate her mother. Except, it was her father placing the gun barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

The high-powered blast reverberated in her ears, killing Joseph Whirlwind instantly.

She waited for his spirit to leave his body, praying he would find peace. Yet there was nothing but the aftermath of his suicide haunting the room.

Olivia went straight home, anxious to see her sister. She found Allie in the kitchen, humming to a Beatles song on an oldies radio station. The kitchen, like the rest of the loft, was decorated in Allie’s eclectic style, with thrift-store treasures and shabby-chic collectables.

Allie was a full-time artist and a part-time art teacher at a senior citizen’s community center. She had a way with elders. With kids and animals, too. She spoiled a black cat, a stray she’d named Samantha that hissed at everyone but her.

Olivia stood back, watching her younger sibling. Although they were only a year apart, eighteen and nineteen when their dad had died, she’d always been protective of Allie.

And for good reason. Most of the time, Olivia’s sister floated through life, ignoring her surroundings. At the moment she wasn’t paying attention to anything except the health-food groceries she was arranging in a walk-in pantry.

“What if I was the Slasher?” Olivia said.

“What?” Allie spun around, her waist-length hair whipping across her body. She wore an ensemble of Southwestern-style clothes, gauzy fabrics decorated with turquoise jewelry she’d bought at a pawnshop.

“You didn’t even hear me come in,” Olivia told her. “I could have been the killer.”

“The door was locked. You have a key.” Allie stacked several cans of vegetarian chili on an already crowded shelf.

“That’s not the point. You’re oblivious.”

“I have street smarts.” The younger woman gestured to a nearby window, where designers, retailers, manufacturers and apparel marts converged in the Fashion District. “Look where we live.”

Olivia shook her head. Their loft was located above a trendy little shoe store and a gourmet coffee bar that baked fresh muffins throughout the day. Even now, the aroma of banana-nut bread wafted through the air, along with the scented candles Allie routinely burned. She existed in a dream world, right along with the fantasy creatures she painted.

“I’m going to teach you to shoot.”

Her sister’s dark skin paled. “No. Not after what Dad did.”

“You need to learn to protect yourself.”

“Not like that.” When Allie cocked her hip, the shiny belt cinched at her waist made her look leaner than she already was. She was tall and graceful, stunningly lithe. Their mother had been a dancer when she was young. Olivia and her sister had inherited Yvonne Whirlwind’s long shapely lines. Of course Olivia had inherited more than that.

Their mom was psychic, too.

The woman who’d walked out on them, she thought. The woman who’d purposely disappeared.

“It’s bad enough that I have to put up with your arsenal,” Allie said. “Most girls collect pretty trinkets. But no, not my sister. She collects weapons.”

Enough of this, Olivia thought. “A wanagi was in my car today.”

Allie’s skin went pale again. A sun catcher in the window bathed her clothes in a prism of dusk, giving her a gypsy-in-the-mist quality. “What did it want?”

“It led me to the motel.”

The younger woman hugged herself. Then she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the massive loft nearly swallowed her whole. The walls were covered with a mural she’d painted, with unicorns and fairies and an armor-clad knight slaying a winged dragon.