Better Read Than Dead (4 page)

 

Later that night I checked in with my sister, Catherine, who called me from her swanky hotel room in New York City. Cat is the female alternative to Donald Trump. She’s a savvy businesswoman who started her own company and is now worth a gazillion dollars, lives fast and furious, and has no patience for stupid people. She typically plays the role of surrogate mother to me, often worrying over her little sister like a frantic hen. She lives in an affluent suburb of Boston but was in New York on a business deal that seemed to be going well, given her excitement and rapid rate of speech. I didn’t have the heart to bring her down, so I declined to inform her about Black Thursday.

Finally she paused and asked, “So are you excited about your dinner tomorrow night with Dutch?”

There was way to avoid it now. “Actually I had to cancel.”

“Cancel? Why would you cancel?”

“Do you remember Kendal Adams, my friend who took some of the overflow off my hands when I was in the hospital?”

“Vaguely . . .”

“Turns out he’s calling in his favor. He needs a fellow psychic to help him with a wedding reception tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Apparently the bride wants Kendal and another psychic to read tarot cards as part of the entertainment for her wedding reception.”

“But you don’t read tarot cards,” Cat said.

“Try telling Kendal that.”

“So does that mean you’re going to fake it?” she asked.

“No. Kendal’s going to give me a lesson tomorrow an hour before the reception.”

“You can learn to read tarot cards in an hour?”

“According to Kendal it’s really easy; anyone can do it.”

There was a very pregnant pause on my sister’s end of the line before she said, “Where would one get tarot cards if one wanted to experiment with them?”

“I’m not sure. I think most bookstores sell them. Why? You thinking of getting a deck?”

Cat laughed and said, “You know I love this stuff. Who knows, maybe your gifts are hereditary, and perhaps they’ve just been lying dormant inside me, waiting for some tool to access them.”

I laughed heartily for the first time all day. I didn’t mean to; it was just that the thought of my very all-business, highly polished sister sitting at a table in her three-thousand-dollar Hermès silk suit pouring over a deck of tarot cards struck me as hilarious. “What’s so funny?” she asked, taking offense.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “It just struck me as funny. I can see you at a board meeting with all those old curmudgeons sitting around the table and you reading their fortunes . . . it’s just
funny!
” I couldn’t help it; I dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“Frankly I don’t see how
that’s
funny. In fact, I think that you just may be a little bit nervous that perhaps you’re not the only one in the family who’s gifted.”

“What?” I asked, quickly stifling the giggles. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Is it
really?
”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Cat, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just had this image in my head, and . . .”

“Oh, look at the time; I have to go,” my sister said abruptly.

“Cat, wait—”

“Good night.” And with that she hung up the phone.

Ah, the perfect end to the perfect day. I decided to throw in the towel and so headed for bed. As I turned out the light and curled myself around Eggy, I thanked God the day was over.

 

At ten to midnight, my phone jolted me out of a sound sleep. “Hello?” I said groggily into the receiver as I flipped on the light and sat up in bed.

“Abby? It’s Milo Johnson. I need you to come down to the police station right away.”

“Wha . . . ?” I said, shaking my head vigorously, working to make sense of what Milo had just said.

“I need you to come down to the police station immediately,” he repeated. “I sent a car to pick you up. It should be at your door in two minutes.”

“What’s happened?” I asked, my heart beating rapidly.

“It’s one of your clients; she’s been attacked.”

“One of my clients?”

“Yes, Cathy Schultz. She was attacked and raped this evening.”

“Oh, my God! Where?” I asked, now fully awake.

“At the Farmer’s Market grocery store on Twelve Mile. We need to talk.”

“Sit tight, Milo,” I said, jumping out of bed. “I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes after hanging up the phone with Milo I was at the Royal Oak police Station being escorted up a flight of stairs to the Detectives’ Unit. As I passed through the doorway into the unit I saw Milo sitting on the corner of his desk, looking through a police file.

“Hey,” I said to get Milo’s attention as I walked over to him.

Milo looked up at the sound of my voice, his face a mixture of concern and anger—quite different from this afternoon. His jacket hung wrapped around his desk chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, revealing corded mocha-colored forearms. His tie had also been removed, giving him a disheveled appearance, and I had an awkward thought that I liked this Milo better. My encounters with him were always with an impeccably dressed man with elegant taste in clothes, but seeing him in a rumpled state made him appear more accessible. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said. “I’m sorry to get you out of bed,” he added, noting my appearance.

I quickly looked down at myself; I was dressed in sweat bottoms and a flannel pajama top, with a zip-up hoodie thrown on haphazardly. Sheepishly I replied, “I guess I was so worried about getting here quickly that I didn’t even think about changing. How’s Cathy?”

Milo closed the file he’d been reading and placed it, without looking, behind him on the desk. He folded his arms and regarded me. “She’s in rough shape.”

“What happened?” I asked, taking a seat in one of the folding chairs in front of Milo’s desk.

“As far as we can tell, Cathy met with her boyfriend at a restaurant to celebrate a job offer, and she left the restaurant around eight thirty. She told her boyfriend she had to stop at the grocery store to pick up some items, and she would meet him back home. They live together in a house on Glennwood. By ten o’clock she still hadn’t come home, so her boyfriend drove over to the Farmer’s Market to look for her. He found her car in the parking lot, but no sign of her. The store closes at nine, and her car was the only one in the lot. The boyfriend called nine-one-one. The police came to the scene and found her half-naked and unconscious behind the store, lying near one of the Dumpsters.”

For the first time I noticed how fast my heart was beating, and how dry my throat felt. I started to feel a little light-headed, and Milo got up off his desk and came to squat by my chair. “Hey, you okay?” he asked gently.

“I think I need some water,” I said, my voice no louder than a whisper.

Milo quickly got up and retrieved some water for me from the nearby watercooler. I took the paper cup and downed it in two gulps. Milo retraced his steps to the cooler, this time bringing two full cups to me. I emptied one of them again but set the last one on his desk. After a moment I felt better. Finally I asked, “How did you know she was my client?”

Milo picked up a familiar cassette tape from his desk. “We found this in her coat pocket.”

“Deja vu,” I said, smiling ironically. This past summer similar cassette tape of mine had been found on another woman. Unfortunately she hadn’t survived her attacker.

“Kinda freaky, don’t you think?”

“Milo, I don’t think there’s anything ‘kinda’ about it,” I said seriously. “Have you listened to it?”

“Yep. Right before I called you.”

“So that’s why I’m here?”

“Yep.”>

“Okay,” I said searching his face. “How can I help?”

“Here’s the thing—unlike like my former partner, Dutch the cynic,” he said, grinning, “I’m an absolute believer. I mean, it’s hard for me not to believe you’re a real psychic after winning the lottery. I’ve got to work this case alone because unfortunately the department’s really stretched these days. I could use your skills to help me get a line on this bastard. That is, if you’re willing?”

My heart began beating rapidly again. The last time I’d lent my skills to solve a major crime I’d come very close to becoming a victim. I didn’t want to go through that again, but on the other hand, if I walked away, how could I still look myself in the mirror every morning?

After all, Cathy was my client. She’d been put in front of me for a reason; didn’t that obligate me somehow? I played seesaw with myself for a minute, when my crew tickled my conscience. Fine, they wanted to weigh in?
Go for it. Should I get involved in solving this case?
Immediately my right side felt light and airy—my sign for yes. “Okay, Milo,” I said more firmly than I felt. “What do you want me to do?”

Milo beamed his beautiful smile at me and sat down at his desk. After pulling out a pad and pen he looked at me and said, “That’s great, Abby. I appreciate it. Now, is there any way you can tune in on this guy’s name?”

I sighed audibly. Names had never been one of my fortes. “Sorry, Milo, names just don’t translate well for me. I’d hate to guess and risk pointing you in the wrong direction. Maybe we can try another angle?”

Milo nodded and glanced at the cassette tape. “Okay, maybe it would be good to talk it through first. You told Cathy that she had to go to the grocery store before her interview. We know she blew that off, because we also found a receipt for a manicure in her pocket, and the time indicates that she paid for it about an hour after she left your office. So tonight she ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time. I think that all the parts that didn’t make sense to her during your reading with her were actually a warning.

“Like you mentioned headaches, and you said that she would have to see a doctor about her headaches. Her attacker hit her over the head with some sort of blunt instrument. She’s currently unconscious and in the hospital, so she is seeing a doctor about her headache.”

I nodded, a little taken aback by the accuracy of a message that just a few hours earlier had made no sense at all. Milo continued: “The problem, however, is that with this kind of trauma, when the vic wakes up they often can’t remember anything about the attack. Cathy’s doctor just called, and luckily we got to her in time. She’s unconscious, but not comatose, and at this point they don’t feel that surgery is necessary. He said her other wounds should heal quickly and that he was guardedly optimistic about her condition. She should be fine in a few weeks. When she’s conscious we’ll certainly check to see if she remembers anything. If you can’t hit on a name, how about trying for something simple, like what this guy might have used for a weapon?”

I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair. Even though I was willing to help Milo out, the truth was that I hated this stuff. Tuning in to something violent is a little like sifting through garbage, it’s smelly, full of yucky things, and while you’re doing it, all you want to do is stop and take a shower. I scowled in distaste, bracing myself, then closed my eyes to concentrate, telling myself this was all for the greater good. I focused first on the weapon. “Okay, they’re showing me a tire, like a flat tire or something. I don’t think he hit her with a tire. . . .”

“No, but you need a tire iron to change a flat,” said Milo, putting two and two together.

I popped my eyes open and smiled. “Yeah, that’s kind of obvious, huh? So a tire iron seems to be the most likely weapon. Nothing was found at the scene?”

“Forensics is still examining the area, but I don’t think we’re going to find anything.”

I nodded, then closed my eyes again. “Okay, ask me something else.”

“What can you tell me about the attacker?”

I concentrated, and after a moment I said, “I get the feeling that this guy is a real scumbucket. I also feel like he’s done this before. . . .” I paused and followed that thought. “Yes, he’s absolutely done this before. Have you guys heard about any other attacks that were similar?”

I could hear Milo scribbling furiously; he paused only briefly to remark, “Yes,” then waited for me to continue.

“Then I’m on the right track,” I said. “I get the feeling he’s a repeat offender. Like he thinks he can get away with this. There’s also a connection to Vegas here.”

“Las Vegas, Nevada?”

“Yes, they keep showing me Vegas. I think he may have a tie to Las Vegas, like he may go there a lot, or he may have done this there. He might be a compulsive gambler. I keep seeing the slot machines and the bright lights of Las Vegas, so I think it has something to do with either gambling or the city.

“You should check with the Vegas police to see if maybe he’s been attacking women there. There could be a connection. Also he’s very conscious of time. Like he sticks to a schedule. Like he’s very routine . . .”

“Uh-huh.” More furious scribbling.

“I also get the feeling that he has dark hair, and dark eyes. No, it’s more than that. This guy is ethnic-looking. I’d say he was maybe Latino or something. He’s got dark skin. . . .”

“Black?” Milo asked.

“No, not black,” I said checking with my intuition. “More . . . Italian or Latino or something. He’s also tall, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was very good-looking. I feel he’s clean-shaven, and takes very good care of himself. There’s also this connection to money. Like he may win a lot of money when he gambles.”

“Got it.”

“And there’s a reference to skiing. I don’t know what this is about, but there’s a huge reference to skiing.”

“He’s a skier?”

“Yeah . . . or something to do with skiing. I can’t quite get the meaning behind this, but they’re saying something about skiing. It’s a clue that’s close, but I’m off somehow.”

“Can you tell me where he likes to ski?”

I focused all of my energy on the clue in my head. I kept seeing a pair of snow skis, but there was something about the connection to skiing that was off. I was close to what my crew was trying to show me, but I hadn’t figured it out yet. “I’m sorry, Milo, I don’t understand it. They’re not telling me, or I’ve misinterpreted.”