The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (10 page)

“Did they do anything other than argue in your vision?”

“She was crying and seemed to be in pain.” He snapped the notebook closed. “I am sorry, but that is all I have at the moment. I know it is not much to go on. Is it possible the man I saw is Stephanie’s father?”

Killgood slurped some kind of liquid, probably coffee. “I haven’t met the man, but I can pass this information to Detective Willard. He’s met Stephanie’s parents.”

“To obtain the girl’s personals?”

“That’s right.”

“I asked him for more of her things. Will he be bringing them?”

“I couldn’t say,” Killgood answered. “He’s working hard on this case, I can tell you that.”

Mr. Howard hesitated on purpose, wanting to give the impression he was in deep reflection, and said, “Chandler, I am trying my best to come up with something that will help in your investigation. I hope you understand.”

“I know.”

“It is a struggle, you see, trying to sort through all of my visions. To be perfectly honest, it is a gift I sometimes regret having.”

He’d used this technique before, making the police believe he suffered with his psychic ability. Normally, this won their sympathy, for even the most hardened homicide detective couldn’t imagine being plagued with horrific visions of death. Visions that defied explanation. Cops wanted control of everything, including their emotions, and the way he presented himself made them think he had no control over his own life. This wouldn’t work with someone like Willard, who charged into an investigation like a bull after a red cape.

“We appreciate everything you do for us.”

“I am grateful to hear that.” Mr. Howard opened the silver heart locket on a chain that had belonged to Stephanie. Inside were photographs of her and a young man he assumed was her boyfriend. Not a bad-looking boy. Curly blond hair. Green eyes. He snapped the locket shut.

“How are things with Reann?” He hated to ask, but speculating her fate was driving him insane.

Several seconds passed before Killgood answered. “Not good, I’m afraid.”

The smart thing to do would have been to say something like, “I am sorry to hear that, let me know if there is anything I can do to help,” but instead he said, “tell me what is wrong, my friend.”

Killgood sighed heavily. “After you left the house, we found bruises on Gail. I’m not saying Ryan beat her, but he definitely spanked her too hard.”

He wanted to reach through the phone, grab Killgood by the neck, shake him and shout, “What is wrong with you? Why isn’t the bastard already dead?” Once again, he said words that belonged to someone else. “That is terrible. What can you do?”

“Reann’s afraid to file charges and rightfully so. I talked with detectives in child abuse and they said with no more evidence than a few bruises, there’s not a lot the courts will do. If we don’t do something, Ryan might hurt her worse next time. He might even…”

Mr. Howard listened as Killgood took several deep breaths. “Chandler, everything is going to be all right. You must believe me. These things have a way of working out for the best, you’ll see.”

“I worked in child abuse for several years,” Killgood said, his voice rising. “I’ve stood over the battered bodies of children and stared into their lifeless eyes. Don’t tell me these things have a way of working out for the best.”

He had crossed a line with Killgood that wasn’t meant to be crossed and regretted his decision. Time to retreat and regroup. “You are right, of course, and I apologize.”

“No need to apologize. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I just don’t know how I can keep Reann and Gail safe. That crazy SOB showed up at our house three times last night. Susan’s terrified that he’ll come over while we’re at work.”

“Is there someplace safe Reann can go?”

“We don’t have relatives close and I can’t ask our friends to get involved. I’ve thought about getting a protective order, but they’re not worth the paper they’re written on.”

An idea came to him. He turned it over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. It was risky. Perhaps too risky. But it would serve two purposes. Reann and Gail would be safe and it might help slow down Willard’s investigation. How could Willard continue to suspect him if Killgood entrusted him with the lives of his daughter and granddaughter? “Chandler, let Reann and Gail come and stay with me. My house is private. It has a gate and security cameras.”

“Mr. Howard that’s a generous offer but I don’t—”

“Let me do this for you, my friend. No harm will come to Reann here, that I can promise.”

Killgood hesitated before answering. “I’ll need to talk with Susan.”

“And Reann.”

“Yes, and Reann. Thank you for your offer.”

“You can thank me by letting me help you.”

“I’ll call later.”

“Please do,” Mr. Howard said. He stared at the phone after Killgood hung up, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

Willard hated the FBI—everything about them. A bunch of skinny-necked accountant assholes. He sat outside the office of Profiler Dave Hartley, leaning onto the arm of a painfully stiff chair, chin in hand. He’d been waiting for forty-five minutes and was bored out of his mind. From time to time, the agents in their cubicles popped up their heads like the moles in the game Wackamole. If he had his Maglite, he’d walk over and whack the crap out of them. Snot-nosed, fresh-out-of-college punks. One of them had the audacity to ask if he was there to fix the copy machine. It took all his fortitude to keep from popping him in the mouth.

The minute hand on the wall clock crept like an old man. He squirmed in his chair and looked at his watch to confirm the time.
Screw this.
He pulled out the case file for the third time since he sat down and started to read.

Stephanie Coldstone was as cold as her surname, probably buried in a shallow grave, a buffet for beetles and worms. Still, he couldn’t fault her parents for holding out hope. If someone kidnapped his kids, he’d feel the same way… well, maybe not quite the same. In fact, he would enjoy the savings on his grocery bill and not listening to their alternative music crap. What was that shit? The alternative to good music? He just wished his supervisors would get off his back. He wasn’t a goddamn miracle worker. If she’s dead, she’s dead. He didn’t have the power to resurrect her.

His imagination drifted to the woman from the Swingers Just Wanna Have Fun website. She had answered his email. Hallelujah and praise the Lord. Now he could try out the device. Would she enjoy it? Hell yeah she’d enjoy it, why wouldn’t she?

“Detective Willard?”

Willard looked up from his notes. A man who appeared to be in his fifties stood nearby. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and the top button on his shirt was undone. His necktie was clipped to a pocket. He looked like an angry drill sergeant with his closely-buzzed grey hair. A half-eaten sandwich occupied his left hand. Before Willard could answer, the man took a bite.

“Yes, I’m Willard.” He put away the case file and stood with his hand out. “Are you Hartley?”

The man shook his hand with a firm grip. “So they tell me.”

Willard followed him into a small office. Hartley closed the door and moved behind a desk cluttered with loose papers. Wood paneling covered the walls like a bedroom in a white-trash singlewide. Outside of his folk’s trailer, Willard hadn’t seen a room with paneling in years. The walls were barren. No photographs, no certificates, not even a clock. He’d expected to see them covered in crime scene pictures, but that was the Hollywood FBI. A can of air freshener sat on the desk and the room held an odd scent of flowers and soap.

“You’re probably wondering why there’s nothing on the walls,” Hartley asked as Willard sat. “Helps me concentrate. Sometimes I like to dim the lights, put on my headphones, listen to a little Pink Floyd, and relax.”

Hartley motioned with his chin toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “So, what did you need to see me about?”

“I’m working on a case.”

“Yeah, I didn’t figure you came here about your prostate. What kind of case?”

“Missing person. Teenage girl named Stephanie Coldstone.”

Hartley pressed into his chair, the leather rippling. “I’m familiar with it. Disappeared after arguing with her rich parents.”

“That’s right.”

“And you think she’s dead?”

He tossed the file onto Hartley’s desk. “What do you think?”

“I haven’t studied the case.”

“But you believe she’s dead.”

Hartley’s cheeks bulged as he worked his tongue against the inside of his mouth. “That’s pretty damn perceptive of you, Detective.”

“Not really. I think any investigator with half a brain would come to the same conclusion.”

“Unfortunately for me,” Hartley said, “about half the people working around here have shit for brains.” He leaned over the desk. “You, on the other hand, are old school. You don’t rely on computers to tell you what to do. You trust your gut. Am I right?”

Willard smiled at Hartley’s assessment of him. “I need your help.”

“Yeah, I imagine you do.”

“A psychic was brought into the case.”

“Oh Lord.” Hartley rolled his eyes.

“He has a track record of helping in investigations. Several during the eighties around Baltimore, and a few here after he moved west.” Willard took out a packet of cigarettes but noticed a no-smoking sign on the desk.

“Ignore it. The sign’s for show whenever a tour group comes through. Hand me one of those cancer sticks.”

Willard gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. Hartley sat back in the chair, his cheeks sinking in as he took a long pull. He blew out a wavering smoke ring that melted into the overhead fluorescent lights. “What kind of information has this psychic given you? Anything useful?”

“Well, he identified the girl and her family by name, supposedly without reading about the case.”

“Bullshit. He read about it in the newspaper.”

“He knew the girl’s hometown and what kind of car her boyfriend drives.”

“All in the public records.”

“And he knew about the Johnny Depp poster on the ceiling in her bedroom.”

Hartley pressed his lips together and pulled them apart with a pop. “Now that is interesting. Any reason to believe he knows the girl’s family?”

Willard shook his head.

“Has this psychic worked with anyone from the Bureau?”

“Actually, he was interviewed by one of your colleagues, a fella named Janssen.”

Hartley’s eyebrows pulled down and he smiled. “Robert Janssen? The man’s a legend among profilers. What’d he say about your psychic?”

Willard shrugged. “I’ve been hankering to get my hands on one of his reports, but Janssen’s retired.”

Hartley’s right index finger shot up. “Ah-ha.” He pulled a Rolodex in front of him and started to flip through it. “I happen to be friends with Janssen. He was my mentor in Behavioral Sciences.” Hartley stopped on an index card. “Here we go. Let me give him a call.”

Willard couldn’t help but grin at this turn of events. As badly as he wanted to solve this case, exposing Mr. Howard as a fraud had become more important to him. There was no victory in finding Stephanie Coldstone’s body, and his odds were better against the house in Vegas than learning who killed her.

Hartley brought the phone close to his lips. He became animated and giddy like a child climbing onto the lap of a mall Santa. “Hey, Bob, it’s me Dave. How you doing? I’m doing just fine. Yeah, still with the Bureau for a few more. How’re Marcie and the kids? Good, good. Hey, the reason I’m calling is, I have a State Detective here who’s working a missing person’s case and a psychic is involved. Yeah, yeah, I know what you think about psychics. Anyway, this detective…” Hartley put a hand over the phone and leaned forward. “What’s your name again?”

He gnashed his teeth. “Willard.”

Hartley gave him thumbs up. “Detective Willard believes you may have interviewed this psychic and he’d like to ask a few questions. Is that all right? Great, great, I’m going to put you on the speaker.” Hartley pressed a button on the phone base and hung up the receiver. “Go ahead, kid.”

Willard cringed at being called kid, but tried not to show his frustration. “Mr. Janssen, this is—”

“What’s this Mr. Janssen crap?” a gruff voice said. “Call me Bob.”

Willard cleared his throat. Normally he liked to keep things formal and businesslike, but this wasn’t a normal situation. “Bob, my name is—”

“I know your name, Willard, Hartley already told me. Look, I’m running late to play a round of golf, so can we get things moving here?”

I’m looking for a missing girl and the son of a bitch is worried about playing golf. Glad to see he has his priorities in order.

“I’m working a missing persons case involving a—”

“I know that too, Detective. Can we cut to the relevant information?”

Willard straightened in his chair. Now his blood was up. “All right. A psychic named Mr. Howard is involved in the case. I hear he did some work for you back in—”

“Whoa, partner. The FBI doesn’t work with psychics.”

“Yeah, yeah, right. That’s a load of crap. Off the record, you pompous ass—you interviewed Mr. Howard for several hours at the Behavioral Science office. I want to know your impression of him.”

There was a long pause before Janssen said, “Dave, I like this boy, he’s got brass ones. You’re right, Willard, I did interview your Mr. Howard, if we’re talking about the same fella. College professor, early sixties, long hair, has some kind of skin condition that prevents him from going out during the day.”

Willard closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “Yeah, that’s the guy, but you said he was in his sixties. That can’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“You interviewed him back in the 80s.”

“Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“He’s in his sixties now. Is it possible you’re mistaken about his age?”

“Hold on, I keep a copy of all my notes. Be right back.” Over two minutes passed before Janssen returned. “According to my records, Mr. Howard was 63 back in 1986.”

Willard opened his eyes. “Why did you interview Mr. Howard?”