Sixth Sense (A Psychic Crystal Mystery) (2 page)

The department got prank calls from psychos and psychics on a regular basis. He couldn’t be expected to take all of them—or any of them, for that matter—seriously.

He didn’t make a practice of lying, but this was one promise he had no intention of keeping.

Jack bounded out of his chair, took the sticky note with the woman’s information, promptly crumpled it up, and aimed for the wastebasket.
He jumps. He shoots. He scores!
He didn’t alert the authorities. He didn’t pass the message on to his superiors.

When Sarge finally returned to his station, with a smile on his face, Jack
did
go on a coffee break, eat a stale doughnut, and try his best to forget about the whole sorry episode.

****

Katherine gripped the receiver and squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t get the picture of the crash to disappear. The mid-sized Gulfstream private jet was a burning hunk of metal, a wreckage of parts scattered like pick-up sticks in random disarray over an oily slick on the ground. The pilot, actor Vince Rivers, stunned, staggered out of his cockpit, still miraculously intact, a glint of moonlight reflecting on his pale, baby face and in his glacial blue eyes.

She tried to speak, but was overwhelmed by another clear vision of the movie star shouting for his son and sobbing as he covered the mangled body of the innocent young boy with his trademark black leather jacket. In her recurring nightmares, Vince Rivers survived. Ocean Rivers did not.

Katherine’s parents had warned her, drummed it into her head since she was in grade school, not to reveal her premonitions to anyone. For some unexplained reason, they were vehemently against her using her sixth sense or advertising the fact that she had psychic abilities. They didn’t want anything but visions of sugarplums dancing in their daughter’s head. But this vision was too powerful to ignore, and a young boy’s life was at stake. This was the right thing to do.

Katherine knew with certainty that the jerk down at the police station wasn’t going to do anything. She’d heard the contempt and the doubt in his voice. Well, she was going to march right down there and shake things up,
make
him listen.

Katherine stripped off her nightgown, dressed hurriedly, took the marble stairs two at a time, and slid behind the wheel of her blue BMW. Revving up the motor, she sped around the long circular driveway and made a left at West Paces Ferry Road, past the Governor’s Mansion and onto an eerily deserted Peachtree Street. Maybe she’d get arrested for speeding. Then someone would listen to what she had to say.

****

“Sarge, I’m done here,” Jack said, dropping his papers into a folder as he turned in his completed report. “I’m headed home. I’ve got some time coming, so I’ll see you next week.”

Jack hoofed it out of the squad room, his mind already wrapped around a bottle of ice-cold beer and a warm bed, when he ran smack into five feet four inches of soft, sweet-smelling woman.

Man, he was either really beat or sex deprivation was kicking in, big time. How could he have failed to notice her? She was about as hot as any woman he’d ever seen. Her thick black hair fell in a mass of ringlets he wanted to tangle in his hands as he held her full, pouty lips captive and kissed her senseless. He could gaze into those violet bedroom eyes forever. Not to mention a peaches-and-cream complexion he’d like to slowly lap up with his tongue. Though she looked like a disheveled gypsy, she was as tiny as a fairy, a very well-developed fairy, and she was madder than a starving pit bull.

The gypsy was dressed in a navy pencil skirt and a white form-fitting shell that left nothing to the imagination. Oh, and the pink necklace was a classy touch. He was having trouble not imagining Miss Junior League naked, under him, dressed only in that goddamned string of pearls. The mystery woman was the kind of glamour girl you ran into once in a lifetime. And now he was stuck with a hard-on the size of Greater Atlanta.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Detective Hale,” the vision said breathlessly.

He must be dreaming.

“Honey, I think I’ve been looking for you all my life.”

“Are you seriously trying to pick me up in a police station?” the sexy stranger snarled.

“It’s as good a place as any,” Jack replied, baiting her.

“Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

“No, but we are in the red-light district.”

“What kind of a cop are you?” she accused. “I need help. And that jerk Detective Hale blew me off.”

“You mind telling me why you want to see that jerk…er, Jack Hale?”

“I called earlier to report a plane crash, and I know he didn’t take me seriously.”

“You’re Katherine Crystal?”

“Yes.” Katherine glared, balling up her fists at her side. “Now I recognize your voice.
You’re
Detective Hale.”

It was the nutcase on the telephone in the flesh. Another psycho psychic the world could do without. Tempting or not, he was going to show her the door and get a jump-start on his much-needed vacation.

“Look, lady, you can waltz your pretty little butt out of this precinct. Nobody is interested in your wild rantings. You’re wasting our time and the taxpayer’s money when we could be working on more important cases.”

“Like the Midtown Strangler?”

Jack yanked on his shirt collar. “Damn.”

He didn’t have to take this shit. What right did she have to come in here criticizing the way he did his job? The woman might be the hottest piece of ass he’d come across in a long time, but she was not his type. End of story. Psychics were off limits. In a way they
were
like prostitutes, only they fucked with your mind, not your body. Major buzz kill. He’d be taking a shower alone when he got home—a cold one.

“Yes, I know about that
unsolved
case,” Katherine said. “So does everyone else in the city. You can’t seem to catch him, and until you do, no one is safe. Did you call my report in like you promised?”

Did everyone in the world know he had failed to apprehend The Midtown Strangler? Was it trending on Twitter?

“Look, I’m off duty, so you can just talk to that nice officer sitting over there at the desk,” Jack said, pointing to the front of the squad room. “Sarge, you’re in for a real treat. This woman has something she wants to get off her…um, chest.”

He needed to get away from this kook. Her manicured nails gripped his arm and attempted to spin him around. He stopped in his tracks. The prognosticating pixie was surprisingly strong.

“I’m talking to you, Detective Jack Hale,” said the diminutive stunner. “And you’d damn well better listen, or you’re going to be sorry.”

“Is there a problem here?” Reacting to the raised voices, the sergeant got up from his desk and walked toward Jack and his visitor. “If you have some issues to work out with your girlfriend, Hale, you’d better take them out of the precinct.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Katherine turned her attention away from Jack and toward the man approaching her. “I’m Katherine Crystal. I called in to report a plane crash, and he ignored me. Are you his boss? I want you to reprimand him.”

“I’m not the captain, but what’s this about a plane crash?” Sergeant Lisle asked.

Jack jerked a finger at Katherine. “This psycho, I mean
psychic
, claims Vince Rivers’ plane is going to crash in Georgia and his son is going to die. I humored her, but of course she’s making the whole thing up just to make a name for herself.”

“Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Anthony Lisle,” he said, extending his hand and nodding politely in Katherine’s direction. “Is what Detective Hale said true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, young lady, don’t you worry, we’re going to get to the bottom of this,” Sarge assured, covering Katherine’s tiny hand with his big meaty one.

So, Sarge had charm. Who knew?

“When is this crash supposed to happen?”

“That’s just it. I had this vision, but I don’t know. It might already have happened.”

“Sarge,” interrupted Jack. “It’s a
vision
. Nothing concrete to act on.”

“I haven’t seen anything about it on TV,” reasoned the sergeant. “We haven’t had anything reported, except for your call.” Sarge narrowed his eyes and glared at Jack.

Jack flinched. How could Sarge believe this soothsayer that he’d known for one minute over a cop whose family he’d known for years? Then he gave Katherine Crystal a second look. The reason was obvious. Sarge was a man, and she was a perfectly put together woman. What guy wouldn’t respond to that?

A rush of uniforms swarmed into the squad room, causing a minor commotion and jostling Jack and Katherine while they vied for Sarge’s attention.

“Sarge, you’ve gotta come see this,” shouted one officer. “Turn up the volume on your TV. It’s breaking news.” Being the tallest person in the room, Jack strode over to Sarge’s desk and adjusted the volume on the television before Sarge could get to the remote.

Crowded around the TV, the group looked up at the steaming wreckage on the big screen.

“Vince Rivers’ plane just crashed at the DeKalb-Peachtree Airport,” said one of the officers. “We got the call to assist.”

“Is fire-and-rescue on the scene?” inquired Sarge.

“Yes, and the place is crawling with reporters.”

“Okay, we’ve got to get down there,” Sarge directed.

It hit Jack like a punch in the gut when he saw the headline scrolling across the screen:

Vince Rivers Injured in Private Plane Crash.

Ocean Rivers Dead.

Chapter Two

Midtown Atlanta, Three Weeks Later

Jack paced the highly-polished hardwood floors in his Midtown condo like a caged panther. The place looked like a pigsty. He’d ordered in pizza four nights in a row and finished up the last bottle of beer. Now he’d moved on to the hard stuff.

He’d tossed and turned but hardly slept since the news of Ocean Rivers’ death went viral. Holed up in his condo for a week after the crash, he’d avoided work because he didn’t want to deal with people. But life as a hermit crab was not all it was cracked up to be.

He couldn’t get the TV images of a devastated Vince Rivers walking behind the tiny white casket at the cemetery out of his mind. And Vince Rivers struggling to keep his distraught wife from jumping into the grave after it.

Predicting the death of Ocean Rivers could have been a lucky guess. Jack did not believe in psychics, but maybe this Katherine Crystal was for real and he was foolish for ignoring her warnings.

Dammit, that Crystal woman was messing with his head. She was all over the news. Every time he turned on the tube he saw her face. Her unforgettable face. He couldn’t stop fantasizing about her long dark ringlets, those violet eyes and pouty lips, and the rest of the irresistible package. He thought maybe it was the beer talking, but even when he was cold stone sober he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The media had dubbed her
Crystal Ball Kate
and they couldn’t get enough of her. He couldn’t blame them. She was making the rounds of all the daytime talk shows and late night programs. In fairness, she didn’t look too eager or comfortable in the spotlight, but the reporters and the cameras worshipped her. Her fifteen minutes of fame had exploded into infinity and beyond. The talking heads couldn’t stop talking about her and fussing over her, flashing on every gory detail of the crash.

He didn’t bring that plane down. Hell, it was probably already in the air by the time she called. Jack downed the rest of his Jack Daniels and mentally kicked himself in the ass. He could justify his actions all he wanted, but what if he could have saved that child? What if the disaster could have been averted?

Sarge thought so. He had reamed him out in front of the whole squad for not following the rules and reporting Katherine Crystal’s call. And he’d had a mouthful to say about the Midtown Strangler and Jack’s failure to make any progress on that case.

To make matters worse, Sarge had hired Katherine Crystal to consult with him on the strangler case. That is, when she wasn’t flying around the country making television appearances.

Jack passed by his bathroom mirror and pulled up short. Jesus, he looked like a werewolf. He had to get rid of all this hair. But a pact was a pact, and he still hadn’t caught the strangler. He scratched his chin. His head was beginning to itch. Or maybe it was the mind games Katherine was playing with him. Maybe she was into voodoo magic.

She’d come into the precinct last week to discuss the case. She certainly didn’t dress like any cop he knew. She stuck out like a sore thumb walking around Midtown in her tight, low-cut red designer dress, dripping in jewelry and tripping in her high-heeled shoes. He’d had to catch her twice when the heel of her shoe got stuck in a sewer grate. She felt good in his arms. But she had no law enforcement experience to speak of. She was just a drag on the investigation. Nothing more than eye candy—window dressing.

“He’s not here,” Kate had insisted on their walk-around.

“What do you mean, he’s not here? He’s not in Midtown? Not in Atlanta?”

“Not in this country.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve had a vision.”

Jack was exasperated. “Are you frigging kidding me?”

Kate had gone quiet, completely clammed up.

“Well?” Jack demanded. “What did you see?”

Kate crossed her arms and stood on the sidewalk outside the precinct. “You won’t believe me.”

Sometimes he wanted to kick her in her well-rounded butt. Sometimes he wanted to grab her butt and kiss the breath out of her. Working with her these past few weeks had done a number on him.

“He’s gone home,” Kate said.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Where is home?”

“Australia,” Kate said simply.

Jack shook his head and walked into the precinct with Kate on his heels. He was not working with this nut job. She was pulling things out of the air.

Sarge signaled them over to his desk.

“Jack, Kate, there’s been another murder. Scumbag with the same MO as our Midtown Strangler. A copycat.”

“He’s not a copycat,” Katherine insisted softly. “He’s the same killer.”

“Impossible,” stated Sarge. “Sydney, Australia, is his new killing field.”