A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery) (8 page)

“Okay, do you know where?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s any one place. I think he strikes when he has the opportunity.”

“Who is he?” she asked.

I closed my eyes and tried very hard to concentrate on that answer. But all I got back was a series of shadowy images. “I think he’s a brunet,” I said, working as hard as I could to pull even the tiniest descriptor out of the ether. “White. Male. Brown hair . . . Ugh. That’s all I can see.”

“Okay,” she said to me. “That’s not bad, but that’s pretty general. What else can you give me about him?”

I focused again on trying to tease out another clue, but nothing came to me. It was so frustrating. “I can’t see anything else really relevant about him. He’s very careful to hide himself. I think he tries to blend in and not get noticed, but he’s a pretty sick person.”

Candice didn’t say anything else, so I finally focused on her. She was looking at me like she didn’t want to say what she was thinking. “What?”

“Sundance, I’m not quite sure how we’re going to solve a series of murders that won’t take place for two more years when we’ve got no names, a very general description, and no initial location to go looking.”

“Damn,” I said. “You’re right. But, Candice, I wouldn’t have pulled those clues out of the ether if I weren’t supposed to get involved somehow.” And then a thought struck me. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “It’s because of me.”

“What’s because of you?”

I put my head in my hands. “I was the one who made the bulldozer driver dig down to those remains. If not for me, that site would’ve been developed, homes would’ve gone up, and the area wouldn’t have lain fallow so that the girls could be buried there. I’m the catalyst, Candice. Me!”

“Hey,” she said, reaching forward to grab my wrists, pulling my hands away from my face. “You are
not
the catalyst, Abby. If this guy is truly going to murder these girls, then where he buries them is irrelevant.”

But I was shaking my head. “No,” I said. “No. There’s something about that site. Something that he wants to make a statement about. There’s a reason he’s burying them there.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it all ties together. The bank, the site, the graves, the delay in development.”

“Whoa,” Candice said. “Abs, you just said the bank ties in with all this. How does it tie in?”

I blinked, realizing she was right. But again I was coming up empty. My radar was drawing links between the bank, the cleared development site, and the four bodies buried there. “I can’t tell,” I said. “But I know it figures in.”

“Do you think it could be four of the bank’s employees?”

My eyes widened. Something about that felt right. “Maybe,” I said. “But two years from now, who knows who’ll be working there?”

“True,” she said with a frown. Then she sat back and shook her head. “Honey, I’m just not sure how to go about solving this thing, and even if we do find out who this future killer is, what are we going to nail him on if he hasn’t already committed murder?”

“I have no idea,” I confessed, feeling like there was no way to win here. “So, what do we do?”

“What can we do?” she replied.

I rubbed my temples. I was starting to get a headache from trying to piece the clues together. “I don’t want to go home yet,” I said.

“You think Rivera is going to send you packing?”

“Yes.”

“Damn,” she said. “That new probie, York, is gonna win the office pool.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sort of the least of our worries right now, Huckleberry.”

“True,” she said. “But I was hoping it’d get you to smile.”

“I feel like a failure.”

“You’re hardly a failure, Abs. Seriously, you need to give yourself
a little more credit. I mean, look at
all
the cases you’ve helped Brice and Dutch crack! Your numbers don’t lie, kiddo. You’re good at what you do. The fact that you just happened to pick up on a murder case that hasn’t happened yet is irrelevant. You’re good.”

“Tell that to Agent Rivera.”

“Oh, I will,” she said.

I was quick to say, “Wait, don’t tell him that. Let’s just see what he says in the morning. Maybe he’ll let me stay on and work the bank robberies.”

“Why is it important to you to stay on and work that particular case?” she asked.

“Because right now these guys think I suck.” My lower lip began quivering and I had to press my lips together hard and clear my throat to continue. “I need to prove to them that I don’t, or Gaston, Brice, and Dutch are all going to end up looking like fools who’ve been duped by a con artist. I’ve got to work the robbery cases, solve them, prove my worth, then convince somebody over there at the L.A. bureau to keep an eye on that plot of land next to the bank. Something bad is gonna go down there, Candice. The summer after next, you mark my words, and I can’t walk away without trying to convince these guys that I’m not full of shit and that they should listen to me. Especially when it might be my fault that the killer is going to use that place for his personal graveyard.”

Candice played with the sash on her robe while she listened to me. “First of all,” she said after a moment, “nothing that happened or happens up on that hill is your fault. All of the blame resides with those who mean to cause harm to others. Period.

“Second, I’m certain that Gaston has weathered harsher storms than the L.A. bureau not wanting to vote you prom queen. Third, our husbands don’t give a rat’s ass
what
anybody
else thinks of them, but they do care what we think of ourselves, and I know that it would pain Dutch in particular if you came away from here thinking you’d somehow failed. Fourth, I haven’t given up on winning the pool, so I will help you any way I can to stay.”

My chest filled with warmth. Candice is one of those true friends that everyone should have, but almost no one does. I’ve long thanked my lucky stars for her, and now I had one more reason to feel so grateful. “I’d really appreciate it,” I said.

“I know. So, let’s figure out how to keep you on the team.”

I blinked with heavy lids. My stomach was full and my body temp was back up to the comfort zone. I realized that I’d just passed the point of being able to focus on Candice and the issue at hand. Still, I gave it my best shot. “How’re we going to do that?” I asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Well,” she said, “by doing what you and I do best. Working together, under the radar, and seeing what we see. If we can dig up some useful stuff on these robbers, then Whitacre’s crew won’t have a choice but to invite you back to the table.”

“Good plan,” I said as another yawn snuck up on me. “Let’s do that.”

I closed my eyes just to rest them for a minute when I heard Candice say, “Hey.”

Forcing my lids open again, I saw that Candice was up from her seat on the bed, where she’d eaten her meal, and was now retrieving her laptop from the desk. “You sleep. I’ll look into these robberies.”

I remember muttering something to her as I sank back into the pillow, but not the specifics. The only thing I do remember is how good that pillow felt and how very tired I was. Then, nothing else until the next morning.

*   *   *

C
andice woke me at half past six. I sort of jolted awake when she shook my shoulder and called my name. “What?! Who?! When?!” I exclaimed, nimbly launching out of bed like a ninja. Well, mentally I launched out of bed like a ninja. My body sort of launched out like an abruptly awakened tree sloth and sprawled out on the floor in a tangle of bedsheets and pillows.

“Nice dismount,” Candice said. “I’ll give it an eight. You would’ve had an eight point five if you’d stuck the landing.”

“I’ll file that away under ‘things I never need to worry about again,’” I muttered, picking my head up from the pillow I’d taken with me to the floor. For a few seconds all I did was stare blearily around the room, trying to get my bearings.

“You gonna get off the floor today, Sundance? Or should I check back with you tomorrow?”

Groaning, I pulled myself to my knees and looked up at her. There was a promising cup of steaming coffee in her hand. “That for me?”

“It is. If you’ll get all the way up, that is.”

I yawned and shook my head to get rid of the sleep cobwebs. With a few more groans I got to my feet and reached for the coffee. Candice withheld it for a moment to add, “I’m going to give this to you, but I’m going to ask something of you in return.”

I sighed and sat down on the bed. “There’s always a catch.”

“Come for a run with me,” she said.

I scowled. Candice is one of those women who
enjoys
physical exercise. Like, for reals she enjoys it. I’ve watched her from the comfort and safety of a lounge chair in her condo’s gym, and she actually
smiles
through wall balls. For those of you who don’t know (and I didn’t until Candice explained it to me), a
wall ball involves squatting low with a medicine ball weighing more than a toddler, and sort of jumping up to a standing position, where you then release said toddler-weighted ball to a target about a million feet up on a wall, then catch it when it descends with outstretched hands before dropping back down into the squat for round two. On a dare, Candice got me to do a set of thirty of them once. It was the most awful experience of my life, but Candice goes at them like a machine gun spitting out rounds of ammunition, all the while wearing a grin like wall balls are the most joyful thing she can do. And don’t even get me started about what happens to her expression when she’s swinging a forty-four-pound kettlebell from her knees to over her head.

I think she may need therapy.

Hell, after watching her destroy the ego of the guy in the condo next to her when he decided to take her on in a challenge that involved a sixty-five-pound barbell, hoisted overhead forty-five times, coupled with forty-five pull-ups in quick succession,
I
might need therapy. I know he’ll never be the same . . . the poor bastard.

Anyway, by now I’ve learned my lesson. “Thanks,” I told her, turning my face away from the delicious-smelling coffee offering. “I’ll pass.”

“It’s a mocha latte,” she sang.

In case you hadn’t guessed, Candice is evil.

My mouth watered. “That’s okay. I’ll pass. Hey, where’re my pants?”

Candice tossed a pair of running tights onto the bed next to me. It’s like she didn’t even care that I’d said no to the run. “I sent all your clothes to the laundry, and I bought those for you at the Dunham’s next door to the Starbucks when I went to get you coffee.”

I eyed her sideways. “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

“And these,” she said, ignoring my comment while bending down to pick up a pair of new running shoes, “were on sale.”

“I’m not running with you.”

“But the best part,” she said, setting my coffee on the desk to retrieve something else from a bag, “is this!” Holding up a gorgeous coral-colored running tank, she added, “It’s so your color.”

I glared at her. Hard.

Candice wasn’t exactly put off. In fact, I might’ve encouraged her, because she had that “challenge accepted” look in her eye. “I’ll take you out for breakfast after,” she said, tossing the shirt at me.

It hit me in the face. Much like the realization that my best friend wasn’t about to give up coaxing me into breaking a sweat. I fell back on the bed dramatically. “Why can’t you go by yourself and leave me and the latte in peace?”

“Because I’m worried you’re getting soft.”

I sat up again. Quick. “You’re worried I’m getting . . . what, now?”

She pointed to my midsection. “Soft.”

I’ve always been a thin girl. I come from a family of primarily skinny people, and my metabolism has been working like a champ these past thirty-seven years, even though I live mostly on carbs, sugar, more carbs, and, oh, yeah, sugar. So when Candice pointed an accusing finger at my midsection, I jumped to my feet like a Pop-Tart out of the toaster to spend the next several seconds staring down at my middle, which (dammit!)
was
a little more round and bloated than I remembered.

“And your butt’s getting big,” she said next.

I gasped. Loudly. Then spun around like a dog after its own tail. “IT IS NOT!”

Candice crossed her arms and refused to take it back. “Sorry, Sundance, but as your best friend, I feel obligated to inform you that you’ve definitely been carrying a little extra junk in that trunk. I think that skinny little body of yours is
finally
showing off your diet.”

My upper lip curled into a snarl. She’d said that with a small hint of glee. “I don’t like you very much right now,” I told her.

“I know,” she said sympathetically. “But I can take it. Come on, honey, you knew it was gonna happen sooner or later. A girl cannot consume that much junk food in a lifetime without it someday showing up on her ass.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Candice shook her head and became serious. “No, of course not. And, truthfully, I don’t really care what you look like, but I do care that you’re healthy. Which, for as long as I’ve known you, you have never been. I think it’s time we changed that.”

I considered Candice for a long moment, taking in her gorgeously toned arms, tight stomach, slender hips, long, lean legs, and healthy glow. She held herself with such confidence, such cool athletic readiness. It was impressive. Even when she was relaxed, she was a force to be reckoned with. And then I caught the reflection of myself in the large mirror above the desk. I was kinda pale. My skin was a little dry. My posture a mess. My muscle tone nonexistent, and my stomach and butt had definitely each gained a size. “Crap on a cracker,” I growled.

Candice smiled like the Cheshire cat. “We’ll do a three-mile run-walk, then go for breakfast. I think a healthy bowl of oatmeal and some fruit will make you right as rain.”

*   *   *

H
ours later (okay, so maybe not hours—I swear the run had played with the time/space continuum to alter my perception
of just how long it’d taken . . . i.e.,
millennia
) we were sitting in a café and I was pushing around gray-looking gruel and unripened fruit like it was the swill they serve in prison. “This whole morning sucks,” I said. “Seriously, it totally sucks!”