A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery) (3 page)

We walked side by side in silence, and it was hard but I managed to keep the smug smile off my lips all the way down the corridor. It probably helped that as we walked past there were nudges and whispers from the men and women standing about. People had turned out for my appearance, it seemed. Awesome.

At the end of the corridor, Agent Hart motioned to a closed door and moved ahead of me to open it. “In here, Ms. Cooper.”

“Thanks,” I said, passing by her into a conference room with a large mahogany table and about a dozen of those weird-looking ergonomic chairs.

I moved to the far end of the table and pulled out a chair before setting down my purse and taking a seat. When I looked up, I saw that Agent Hart was standing there with a puzzled expression on her face. “Are other people joining us?” I asked.

Hart pulled a little on her left ring finger—which was bare of any ring. “Yes,” she said, but it was clear she wanted to say
something more. “It’s just . . . I paid cash for the car. And I bought it at one of our FBI auctions. It’s not on my credit report or any public record. I haven’t even registered it yet.”

I stared at her dully. “Your point being that even if I had researched the financial and public records of every single agent in this office—which, if I actually
had
, would’ve landed my ass in serious hot water—I couldn’t have known about the car, right? I mean, even
besides
the fact that I just found out about this assignment this morning, and between hearing about the assignment and getting on a plane, I obviously had no time or even access to a database that would’ve shown me exactly who was employed here—not to mention the time to memorize enough details to toss out a few very specific and accurate facts about you, individually, Agent Hart, upon meeting you for the first time, without knowing that it was
you
who would be greeting me. Is that about the gist of what you’re thinking right now?”

Her face flushed and she bit her lip. “I seem to have severely underestimated you, Ms. Cooper.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’re definitely not alone, and after you, I’ll be dismissed just as easily by every person in this office. So how about you bring in the firing squad and we get this dog and pony show on?” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together for emphasis, and Agent Hart dipped her chin and scooted back out of the room, probably to gather the other pitchfork-wielding villagers.

While I waited, my phone beeped. It was Candice.

How’s it going?

I sighed.
Exactly like we expected.

So, they’re being complete douchewaddles. . . .

“Douchewaddle”? That’s new.

I’m three drinks in. You get what you get.

Got it. Yes, they’re being total DWs.

Need a Huckleberry?

Not yet, but how about you lay off the booze and sober up in case I need one later?

Roger that. Hang in there, Sundance.

I put my cell away but not the smile that hearing from her had brought on. Candice had this way of making me feel smarter, stronger, and more confident than I usually could feel on my own. Maybe it was because she was so smart, strong, and confident that some of those qualities rubbed off on me. And I had no doubt that she was in fact totally sober. The “douchewaddle” and three-drinks-in thing was just an effort to get me to laugh and chill out in an otherwise stressful situation. God love her, it’d worked.

By the time the door opened and a line of men in crisp, starched dress shirts, ties, and slacks all marched in, I was fairly relaxed. Still, I kept my expression neutral lest the smirk I wanted to adopt get us off to a bad start.

The first man through the door came around to the other side of the table directly across from me and stuck out his hand. “Ms. Cooper, I’m Special Agent in Charge Manny Rivera.”

I stood and shook his hand, adding a nod for good measure. “A pleasure, sir,” I said. (I figured it didn’t hurt to be polite.)

Pointing down the row of men as they came in to pull out
chairs from around the table, he said, “These are special agents Kim, Perez, Williams, Robinson, and Simmons.”

I nodded to each of them and I noticed that all the agents had carried in one thin folder apiece, which they set on the table in front of them before taking their seats. Just as I’d settled back into my chair, Agent Hart came back into the room and looked around the table. I’d noticed that the men had all taken up chairs opposite me, gathering around their leader, SAIC Rivera. The message was easy to see. It was them against me.

There was one last seat at the end of the table next to Agent Simmons for Agent Hart to take, but she surprised me—and it seemed her peers—when she came to my side of the table and pulled out the chair just one down from mine. Hmm . . . maybe I’d underestimated her too.

I dipped my chin in thanks at her, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead she rested her hands on the conference table and looked expectantly to Rivera.

“Well,” he began in the slightly awkward silence that followed. “Now that we’re all here, I think we should start by seeing what you’re capable of, Ms. Cooper.”

That’s doubtful,
I thought, but held my tongue.

Rivera pushed forward a very thin file toward me. “This is a case that Agent Simmons has been working. We’d like to see what you can tell us about it.”

I stared at the closed folder, trying very hard not to give in to my first impulse to yell “Bullshit!” After counting to ten, I opened the folder and considered the first page. It was a photo of a young man, maybe late teens to early twenties, with ginger hair, a dusting of freckles, and slightly crooked teeth but a smile as wide as Texas. He looked the picture of innocence, appearing happy and like he had his whole future ahead of him with endless possibilities. Nothing about his image spoke to the truth
about who he was, however. That I picked up right away as a series of images flashed through my mind.

There was a typed-up bio on the inside of the folder. It stated that the young man’s name was Sean Anderson. He was nineteen. His dad was a locksmith. His mother was a tax accountant. They lived in Van Nuys.

“God, I hate being tested,” I said softly, closing the file to fold my hands over the top of it and stare dully at Rivera.

His brow furrowed slightly. “How do you think you’re being tested?” he asked carefully.

I pushed the file back toward him. “That’s a closed case, sir. And it’s a waste of my time to give you my impressions on a case you’ve already solved. Granted, if any case might’ve tested my abilities, it’d be one where Opie from Mayberry gets turned by Islamic extremists into a homegrown terrorist, but, sadly for you folks, today’s the day I pass with flying colors.” The room had been quiet before I’d spoken, but now there was an extra sense of stillness to it. Most of the people around the table were trying to hide their stunned reactions. Some of them squinted at me and pressed their lips together, while others looked at Rivera as if he would provide an explanation, but he was staring at me as if trying to figure me out. Like I was some kind of puzzle that just needed the corner piece to orient the rest of the picture.

I’ve seen that look a lot in my life. It gets really, really wearisome after a while, because the answer is so simple. . . . I really AM fucking psychic, people. But, whatevs. I’d owe the swear jar a mental quarter later. For now, I had more proving ground to cover. I switched my focus from Rivera to the guy at the end of the table. Snapping my fingers and pointing to him, I said, “Slide your case file over here, Agent . . . ?”

“Kim,” he said with a hint of irritation.

I nodded and motioned impatiently with my hand to have him give me the file. He looked to Rivera—who nodded—before sliding it (with a bit of force) across the table toward me. I slapped it with my hand before it could get by me, then opened it and stared at the photo for like two seconds before closing it firmly. “Dead,” I said of the man pictured inside. Then I pointed at Kim and added, “And you know it. Granted, I don’t think you’ve found your body yet, but you will. It’s belowground, but not buried. Look at a family member, like a brother or a cousin who was like a brother. There was a familial connection between the murderer and the victim, but neither of the two men were saints. Just the opposite. This guy was connected to organized crime out of Russia . . . no . . . maybe Croatia, and the only person he trusted was his brother. Stupid. The brother was Cain to his Abel and wanted to take over the business.” Kim opened his mouth as if to say something, but the needle on my snappish and rude meter was already in the red zone, so I gave his folder a good shove back to him and turned my focus to the remaining agents. “Who wants to go next?” I asked them.

The agent on the left side of Rivera stood and handed his folder to me. There was unspoken challenge in his eyes. I took the folder and opened it. A woman with long ash-blond hair and pretty green eyes stared out at me from the inside cover. The bio said that her name was Chelsea Brown; she was single and living in Inglewood. Her energy was somewhat “loud,” and by that, what I mean is that she had energy that was very easy for me to pick up on and sort through. As I studied the photo and the energy attached to the woman, I got a series of images that caused me to frown. Looking up at the agent, I said, “Agent . . . Uh, sorry, what was your name again?”

“Perez,” he said.

“Yes, Agent Perez, why is this woman being investigated? She’s done nothing wrong.”

His eyes widened and he didn’t even try to cover it up. I realized immediately that he knew she was a law-abiding citizen.

That sparked some anger from me because I could feel that he’d been interacting with her quite a bit. “Listen,” I said, leaning toward him. “You need to back the hell off this woman, Agent Perez. She hasn’t broken a single law and
you
know it. Now, I can’t understand why you’re investigating her, but I sense your energy
all
over hers and I don’t like men who stalk women on the pretense that they’re investigating them for some trumped-up charge.”

“I’m not stalking her, Ms. Cooper,” he said.

“Bullshit,” I snapped. “You’re very aware of her daily comings and goings, and I have the feeling you’re not going to back off either. For God’s sake, man, the woman’s pregnant! She’s in a vulnerable situation right now and the last thing she needs is you breathing down her neck!”

Perez looked taken aback—obviously he hadn’t known she was pregnant. Still, he offered up no further information, and that made me even madder. Pointing a finger at him, I said, “I think you should know that after this little party winds up, I intend to place a call to Director Gaston about you and this woman.”

Perez’s eyes widened a little more. He looked to Rivera, who also seemed pretty surprised by my outburst. I pointed my finger next at him and said, “She didn’t do anything wrong, Agent Rivera. She’s broken
no
laws.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cooper,” was all he said.

I glared hard at him. I could tell he didn’t intend to do anything about it, so I closed the file and made a show of tucking
it into my purse. If I had to, I’d drive out to the address listed in the bio and warn the woman myself. I very nearly walked out right then—I mean, I had no intention of being a part of any abuse of power by these L.A. chuckleheads—but Rivera put up his hand in a stopping motion as if he sensed I was ready to bolt and said, “Ms. Cooper, I’ll explain why we needed your feedback on Chelsea Brown later. For now, if you’d please hand over that file and indulge the rest of our agents?”

I tapped a finger on the table while I thought about it. It seemed that Rivera was sincere about talking to me afterward, but if he was going to try to protect Agent Perez, then I didn’t really need to stay.

On the other hand, my intuition was telling me to stick it out. Why, I didn’t know, but every time I don’t listen to my gut, I regret it, so I compromised. I pulled out the file from my purse, opened it to the address listed, and memorized it; then I slid the file back to Perez. “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms to show Rivera that I’d stay, but I wasn’t happy about it. After taking a deep breath to settle myself, I nodded across the table to where the only black agent in the room sat. He had a beautiful face, with sharp, intelligent eyes. He could’ve easily been a model or a movie star, but he’d chosen this for a career, which earned him a teensy ounce of respect from me. Pointing to him, I cocked an eyebrow in silent question.

“Robinson,” he said.

Shifting my hand slightly to point at the folder underneath his right hand, I asked, “May I?”

He pushed the folder forward and I flipped it open to look at the photo and corresponding bio. I took in the image of a Hispanic man in his mid-fifties with a goatee and squinty eyes. “Drugs,” I said when I felt that familiar oily, bitter taste at the
back of my mouth. Sometimes, my intuition interprets things through my other senses, and the fingerprint of drugs in the ether always leaves an oily, icky taste on the back of my tongue. In my mind’s eye I saw a crown being placed on the man’s head. “He’s a kingpin,” I said. Then I saw a pair of wings and my symbol for Mexico. I closed the file and pushed it back across the table. “You’ve been working this case for a while, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. I could tell my four-word assessment of his case file hadn’t overly impressed him.

“That,” I said, pointing to the folder, “is not a closed case. But it sure as hell should be. You’ll never catch him.” Agent Robinson shifted in his chair and his energy suggested he was totally resisting my message. It didn’t stop me from giving him more of my opinion, of course. “He’s already flown the coop and gone back to Mexico, and no way are you gonna be able to tempt him to come back across the border again.”

Robinson cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips ever so slightly in silent challenge to my statement.

I shrugged. “I know he’s got family here, right? A wife and two girls who’re in their teens, right?”

Robinson’s other eyebrow joined its raised twin, but he didn’t give me a yea or a nay on that.

“You think that this guy is gonna come back over here one more time for them, and I’m here to tell you he’s already abandoned his family. He finds clever ways to send them money, but emotionally, he’s completely divorced himself from his wife and daughters, and soon even the money’s gonna stop. He’ll never set foot on U.S. soil again, and you’re not going to get the Mexican authorities to hand him over either. I think you’ll chase him for a while, though, because you’re just the kind of man who won’t quit until you bring in the bad guy, but it’ll cost you
something in the long run. I’m thinking the price you’ll pay is something in the form of a promotion when it comes time for your turn. Your superiors don’t think you know when to give up a dead case and focus on one you can actually resolve.”