“Come on, Pogo,” Mac urged, leaning on the cold metal table separating the petty thief and low-level former drug dealer from his detectives. “Tell us where you really were.”
“I was at a bar, okay?”
“Where?”
He gave the location, a hole-in-the-wall with a less-than-reputable clientele.
Rick scooted back his chair, the legs screeching on the tile floor. “You told us earlier you were at the grocery.”
“I was there before. I just went to grab a beer before going home. There’s no law against that. Someone must have followed me.”
“Someone like who?” Barbara asked, her blue eyes narrowing. In her late fifties, she was the top female detective in the department and was especially effective in interrogation, though she and Goins went back so far that any trust between them had been broken long ago. That was the trouble with Goins. He knew practically every cop in the precinct, thanks to his less-than-honest ways. He was particularly hard to trip up, despite his obvious hangover, simply because he’d been in enough interrogations to teach a class at the academy.
“Look, Pogo,” Mac broke in. “We just want to help you find your ride, but now your story is changing on us. Where were you? Shopping for milk and eggs or club hopping with that new squeeze of yours?”
Goins rolled his eyes. “Yeah, do I look like the type bouncers are going to let in some club? I just went in for a brew.”
And overheard something?
Where was Lilith? Mac glanced at the window. He couldn’t see anything, of course. Had she taken off?
Mac considered slipping out for a minute, but Goins seemed on the verge of telling them something. He had to ride this out.
“But you got more than a beer while you were there, didn’t you?” Barbara asked.
Goins pushed back from the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I just want my car.”
“There. That’s it, Mac. Go in for the…”
Mac didn’t have a chance to respond when the door to the interrogation room slammed open. The minute he saw the tacky diamond ring on the intruder’s left hand, Mac knew the interview was over.
Shit. Why hadn’t Lilith warned him?
And now what the hell was he going to do?
TORTURE. PURE TORTURE. It was bad enough when Mac faced her, flashing her with glimpses of his deep maple-brown eyes, stubbled square jaw and lips that curved just enough to be delicious and manly at the same time. But when he’d spent the interview with his back to her, she’d had an unhampered, uninterrupted view of his amazingly tight ass. An ass she’d once adored with her mouth and hands in unadulterated appreciation. An ass she craved even now. Damn him.
She sipped her hot drink, brewed with the chamomile tea bag she’d swiped from Det. Walters’s desk. Barbara didn’t seem to mind Lilith’s continued petty thefts. One of these days Lilith was going to replace what she’d taken. That ought to be good for an extra-credit karma point.
But first she had to concentrate.
Okay, she couldn’t read Goins’s mind. When she’d had her psychic powers, she could plug into most people’s thoughts as if she had a listening device implanted in their brain. With more sophisticated liars, her psychic vision had allowed her to see images—pictures, sometimes even words spelled out in block letters—which she’d had to then interpret into the information she needed. Oftentimes, the interpretation had been the hardest part of the experience. Only after years of training with her aunt Marion—the witch from whom she’d inherited her power—had she learned how to block out all the detritus and focus only on the information she sought. Now when she focused, her screen was blank.
But the stirring in the pit of her stomach that alerted her when someone was lying still seemed to work.
And Goins had her feeling as if she needed a huge dose of Tums.
Having Mac so close and yet so far wasn’t helping matters either.
She pressed her fingers against the glass and tried to focus on the subject of the interview. She closed her eyes instinctively, but when she did, the roiling in her stomach ceased. She forced her eyes open. Good goddess, she was going to have to relearn how to do everything. Back when she’d been a child, before she’d grown fully into her power of clairvoyance, she’d suffered endlessly from an upset stomach. Not until her mother had caught her chugging Mylanta had she learned that her physical reaction to lies had been strong enough to sicken her. Her mother, filled with guilt and remorse, had then—and only then—sat her down and explained that Lilith was a witch of sacred gifts and that someday she’d hold sway over those around her because of her abilities.
God, how old had she been?
The sick feeling returned, and not because of mistruths. Only a few months later Amber St. Lyon had died, leaving Regina and Lilith to discover their magic alone. Okay, not alone. Aunt Marion had been there, as well as the rest of the Council, all of them keenly aware that the scope of power passed down through the St. Lyon line required that the girls be groomed and molded with precise care. They’d done a hell of a job with Regina, who’d taken over as Guardian on her sixteenth birthday, the youngest witch in two centuries to assume such a lofty position. With Lilith…well, suffice it to say that by the time she was sixteen, she could control her power…and little else.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Chicago Police Department’s resident soothsayer.”
Lilith spun around, cursing at being caught off guard yet again. She sharpened her four-letter words from mildly offensive to shockingly harsh when she recognized who’d called her out.
Boothe Thompson.
“That would make you the criminal element’s equivalent of Santa Claus, wouldn’t it?” she snapped.
Boothe smoothed his manicured hands down the length of his tailored Italian suit. “I’m much too slender for that comparison, Lilith, don’t you think?”
She raised an eyebrow. “When exactly did we get on a first-name basis?”
“I find it hypocritical to trade insults with someone and then address them formally. And I may be a lot of things, but hypocrite is not one of them.”
“No, I suppose being a bottom-feeding ambulance chaser takes up way too much time for anything else,” she retorted and then added, “Mr. Thompson.”
His lips curved into a half smile. “You are the feisty one, aren’t you?”
Lilith stepped forward, inwardly cursing at how she could read nothing from this man. And not because of her lost powers. From the first minute she’d crossed paths with this infamous defense attorney over a year ago she’d been unable to read him. She sometimes ran into mundanes—nonmagical mortals—who could effectively block her psychic abilities. She figured a scum-bucket attorney like Boothe Thompson had honed his truth-masking abilities from an early age. She experienced the same effect with some stage-trained actors and, not surprisingly, experienced boutique saleswomen. Particularly those who worked on commission.
“The feisty one? Compared to whom?”
“All charlatans of your ilk,” he replied, sneering. “How the mayor allows his department to employ frauds and swindlers like you is beyond me.”
Lilith rolled her eyes. “I expect there’s quite a bit that’s beyond you. Like the fact that I’m the real deal.”
He stepped closer. “Is that so? Tell me, then, Ms. St. Lyon…” he said, emphasizing the miz sound so that he nearly hissed like a snake. “What does your third eye reveal when you look at me?”
Lilith squared her shoulders and, despite her lack of magical powers, stared