Dream Man by Linda Howard Page B

for it went against the grain with someone so solidly grounded in reality and facts. The other half was alarm. Shit, what if it was for real?
    He didn’t want anyone reading his mind, though after a moment’s reflection he had to admit that it would be convenient if a woman could tell how he felt and he wouldn’t have to talk about it. But it was more than that. He was a cop. He had seen things, heard things, done things, that he didn’t want to have as common knowledge between him and his woman. It was something only another cop would understand. The job marked them, forever set them apart from civilians. Some cases would go with him to the grave, living in his mind. Some victims’ faces, he would always see. He didn’t want anyone invading the privacy of his mind. Not even Marlie. His nightmares were his own. He gathered up the sheets. “I’m going to check on some of this,” he said. “Talk to this Dr. Ewell, find out about the past six years.”
    Trammell looked a little strange, a kind of amusement vying with sympathy. Dane scowled at him. Sometimes having a partner was like living with a psychic, you got to know each other so well. Trammell was sadistic enough, damn him, to enjoy seeing Dane squirm over a woman.
    “What’s so damn funny?” he growled. , Trammell shrugged. “It looks like we’ll be working with her, and I was just picturing you trying to get on her good side, after the way you two hit it off. Or didn’t hit it off, I should say.”
    Dane went back to his desk and got on the horn. Wryly he remembered when he had put in for detective. He had pictured a lot of fieldwork, fitting obscure pieces of evidence together like Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he had spent a lot of hours on the phone, and he’d found out that a detective was only as good as his snitches. A smart detective cultivated a lot of contacts on the street, lowlifes who were willing to drop a dime on someone else. Too bad he hadn’t had any snitches in Nadine Vinick’s neighborhood.
    A call to Information got him the number for the Institute of Parapsychology in Boulder. Less than a minute later he was being connected to Dr. Sterling Ewell.
    “Dr. Ewell, this is Detective Dane Hollister, Orlando Police Department.”
    “Yes?”
    Dane frowned slightly. There had been a wealth of caution in that one word. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Marlie Keen. She used to be affiliated with the Institute.”
    “I’m sorry, Detective,” the professor said coolly. “I don’t give out any information over the telephone about my colleagues.”
    “Ms. Keen isn’t in any trouble—”
    “I never thought she was.”
    “I simply need some background information on her.”
    “As I said, Detective, I’m sorry. I have no way of knowing if you are who you say you are. Tabloid reporters have often tried to get information by claiming to be with various police departments.”
    “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 identifica-tion, 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