The Night Is Forever

“I don’t think she likes you a lot right now,” Sloan told her.



Dustin nudged Olivia. “Finish your coffee and let’s go,” he said. “We have an art student to see.”



“Sammy and I will hold down the fort here,” Abby said. She yawned. “Maybe take a bit of a nap on that sofa.”



Olivia set down her cup and took Dustin’s hand. “Come on, let’s go. Let’s see what Simon Latinsky has to say.” Sammy let out a mournful howl, as if he knew he was being left again.



“Ah, come here, boy. I’m going to cuddle you while we take a nap,” Abby crooned, enticing him over.



“Just FYI, he’s not supposed to be on the couch,” Olivia said.



Abby grinned at her. “Okay, I’ll be on the couch—and he can sleep on me!”



Olivia smiled. It was evident that she approved of the woman who’d become Malachi’s partner in every possible way.



* * *



Simon Latinsky lived in a turn-of-the-century house on Capri Street near Vanderbilt. When they knocked on the door, the woman who opened it seemed to be expecting them; she welcomed them in and asked if they wanted coffee. They declined, and she directed them to Simon’s room, explaining that she owned the house but rented four of her rooms to students.



The house reminded Dustin of his college days. The tenants seemed to be musicians and artists. He and Olivia could hear someone practicing a guitar as they walked up the stairs, and the hallway was lined with lithographs.



Simon let them into his room. He looked much as he had in the picture Jane had found online.



“Hi!” he greeted them. “Come on in. Sorry, it’s such a mess.” It was a mess. Simon dumped a pile of clothing from a chair and another from the foot of his bed so they could sit. “I heard you’re with the FBI!” he told Dustin.



“I am,” Dustin said, introducing himself and Olivia.



“Cool. But I’m not sure what I can do to help. The lady on the phone was asking me about my General Cunningham picture. She says the sheriff out by you found one—in some trees. The thing is, it can’t be the one in the newspaper photo. That’s owned by Hysterically Haunted Happenings—they’re the guys who had the contest. I was really happy to win. Tuition is stiff, you know?”



“I remember,” Olivia said. “And I sympathize.”



“Hey, want to be a model? What a great face you’ve got.”



“No, but thank you.”



“I didn’t mean a nude or anything. I have a little money now.” He grinned. “I could even pay you.”



“Maybe some other time.” Olivia smiled at him. “If you’re looking for models, we have gorgeous horses at the Horse Farm, not to mention adorable dogs and cats. You could come out and see them sometime.”



“Yeah, a woman on a horse. A naked woman on a horse! Oh, no—sorry. You can tell I like historical images,” Simon said.



“I’m no Lady Godiva.”



Dustin brought the subject back to their original purpose. “My associate told me that you had a few other renderings of the general. Practice runs, she called them. But you sold them all?”



“Too bad I didn’t know I was going to win!” Simon groused. “I’d have held out for more money. Yeah, I did two practice images. They weren’t as well-shadowed or defined as the one I entered, but they were still pretty good. They probably wound up someplace where they won’t really be appreciated.”



“Oh, I think one of them is appreciated,” Olivia murmured.



“So, you sold two. Who did you sell them to?” Dustin asked.



Simon screwed up his face. “We had an art sale right in the yard,” he said. “We do them every few months. Mrs. B.—you met her, she owns this place—is really cool. Some of my friends play their own music, she makes lemonade and sangria and we have a great day. I sold a bunch of stuff, sketches, some watercolors—and the practice pieces.”



“Yes, but who did you sell them to?” Olivia asked, repeating Dustin’s question.



“Well, I’m trying to remember,” Simon told them. “’Cause I sold so much.”



“Was it all cash?” Dustin asked.



Simon brightened. “No. No, I took several checks.... Oh, yeah! I took a check for one of the renderings.”



“Who wrote it?” Dustin persisted.



“Um—a guy,” Simon said vaguely.



“Old guy, young guy?”



“Sort of in the middle. He wasn’t a kid, but he wasn’t keeling over or anything, either.”



“Was he dark-or light-skinned? What color were his eyes? Did he have a beard? How was he dressed? Is there anything you remember about him?”



“Well, he was wearing a baseball cap, I’m pretty sure. I don’t remember his eyes. No, he didn’t have a beard.”



“Do you have the check he gave you?” Olivia asked.



“I already deposited it,” he replied. “Everyone told me I was an idiot to take a check. But here’s the good thing—it didn’t bounce!”



“Simon, I swear we’re not after your bank account, but you must have online banking,” Olivia said. “If you pull up your account, you should be able to find a copy of the check.”



He got up. His desk was piled high with pens and pencils, art sheets and school memos. He brushed them out of the way to get to his computer. A minute later, he’d drawn up his records and hit all the right keys. He swiveled in his desk chair to look at them proudly. “I found it!”



Olivia got up and walked over to stand behind the boy, studying the computer image of the check he’d been given.



She turned to look at Dustin with stricken eyes.



“Aaron,” she said softly. “Aaron bought the general’s image.”



17



“I don’t know how we’ll ever get at the truth,” Olivia said as they drove out of the city. She realized that although she’d discovered something she hadn’t wanted to know, she’d been glad to get away—even if Nashville wasn’t really “away.” Any trip there, however brief, was a pleasure; the city was sophisticated and filled with music and charm and yet still had a small-town feel.



But she loved the Horse Farm, too. She had adored Marcus; she’d cared about Aaron. But Aaron might have gone crazy before he’d died—or been killed. Every clue seemed to lead them in circles.



“We will,” Dustin said in a reassuring voice. He was driving, and she sat in the passenger seat, gazing out the window, wishing she could roll back time.



“What now?” she asked him.



“I’ll call Frank in a little while and find out if he’s come across anything new.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Hungry?”



“Yes, actually. We never did have lunch. We could turn around. I know some incredible restaurants on Elm Pike or back by Music Row.”



He grinned at her. “I was thinking more of the café.”



“I thought Jane was going.”



“Maybe she hasn’t gone yet. Maybe we should all meet up there.”



“And to think I once really enjoyed that café!” she said.



“Grab my phone and call Jane. See if they want to meet us there for an early dinner. Someone should stay at the Horse Farm, though.”



“All right.” As directed, she got his phone. Jane hadn’t been to the café yet; she and Abby had spent most of the afternoon on the computer, hacking into her coworkers’ social network sites.



“You can do that?” she asked Jane.



“Sometimes. Pretty easy in this case. Your coworkers use their email addresses as their user names and the name of one of the horses as their passcodes. It wasn’t terribly hard.”



“And?”



“No red flags, but we’ll talk at the café.”



Olivia leaned back in the passenger seat.



“Tired?” he asked.



She glanced at him. “Well—I’m tired of being on edge,” she said. “Uh, where are we sleeping tonight?” She meant the question to sound very casual.



“Your house,” he told her. “Jane and Sloan will remain at the Horse Farm, and Malachi and Abby will go and stay at Marcus’s house—or more accurately, your other house.”



“Oh,” she said. “Will everyone know that?” she asked carefully.



She thought he was smiling. “I don’t think Malachi will mind.”



“He’s kind of protective....”



“He just wanted to make sure I knew how extraordinary you are.”



“He is my cousin.”



“I assured him that I think you’re completely extraordinary.”



“Ah,” she murmured.



He was quiet for a few minutes. “We’ve talked a little about what others see as our strange experiences. Do you remember the first time you had one of those experiences—when you saw a ghost?”



“It was the general,” she said. “I saw him sitting proudly on his horse. He was so dignified. And I wasn’t afraid.... And, of course, there was Malachi’s resident ghost. He lives in the family home in Virginia. I sometimes wondered when I was young if I really saw him or if it was just Malachi’s way of teasing me. But...he was a good ghost. A family ghost. You’d never be afraid of him. I haven’t spent my life having conversations with ghosts, though. Not the way it seems the rest of you have.”



“Ghosts don’t always have a reason to speak or make themselves known,” Dustin said. “But once you’ve gotten accustomed to the fact that the dead can walk—and speak—you can seek them out. Not everyone, of course. But you definitely have the talent.”



“Talent,” she echoed. She closed her eyes. “If I didn’t have the ‘talent,’ as you say, I would’ve been forced to accept—whether I really believed it or not—that Marcus had relapsed. And in that case...Aaron might still be alive. There might be hope for the Horse Farm.”