"Well, it's funny you should ask that," I said shuffling my feet. "I found out from Connie Franklin that Allison Pierce was also a member of Heart2heart, and a few weeks ago she went out on a date with that guy."
"Tell me you're pulling my leg, Abby," Dutch said, his voice suddenly flinty.
"I, uh, that is …" I stammered, not really sure why he looked like he was about to explode.
"Tell me you did not go out on a date with a man connected to Allison Pierce to see if maybe he had something to do with her murder." Dutch's eyes now pinned me to the spot, and I found myself looking longingly at my front door.
"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I checked in with my intuition and I knew I'd be fine. Plus the moment I met him I knew he didn't kill Allison," I said, rushing it all out at once.
"You checked your intuition, and you knew you'd be fine!"
"Yes?" I squeaked.
"Are you insane Abby? Do you know what a stupid thing that was for you to do? Did you ever think of calling us with this information? Hasn't your intuition ever been wrong?!" he bellowed, and I felt the wind of his breath across my face, blowing strands of loose hair along my temple.
I don't like being yelled at. It tends to get my dander up. "Well, Detective, as a matter of fact my intuition has in fact been off exactly once that I know of and that was when it suggested that going out with you was a good idea!" Point to Abby.
Dutch's jaw bunched at my insult, and he audibly grumbled. After a moment, he reached into his back pocket, whipped out his cell phone and snapping it open, hit a number on speed dial. In a moment the line was picked up and Dutch barked, "Milo, Dutch. Listen, I need you to do a background check on that guy Abby was with at the restaurant. According to her he recently had a date with Allison Pierce." There was a pause and then Dutch said, "I don't know. Hold on." He turned to me and asked, "What's his name?"
"I only know his first name, Dirk, but he's listed on Heart2heart as 'Mr. Hardbody.' "
Dutch's lips formed a mocking smile, and he said, chuckling, "You went out with a guy named 'Mr. Hardbody'?"
"Yeah, and I also went out with a guy who calls himself 'Cool-Hand Luke.' How's that for cheesy?" Point two to Abby…
Dutch's smile disappeared and I watched his jaw bunch a few more times. "That happens to be my favorite movie," he answered with a sneer.
"Of course it is, Paul—or do you prefer 'Mr. Newman'?" I said, batting my eyes. Abby three, Dutch zero.
Dutch's lip curled a bit, but he clearly thought better of whatever retort he had on his mind and turned back to the phone. "Milo, the guy's first name is Dirk. Check to see if he left a credit card receipt at the restaurant. If not, he's listed on a Web site Heart2heart. We can find him from there." Dutch paused, listening, then continued, "Okay, I'll see you in ten." Flipping the phone closed, he regarded me with the same flinty expression and cool temperature in his eyes. "Abby, you need to do me one small favor—that's all I want and I don't think it's too much to ask."
I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. Yeah, I'd do him a favor—right after he taught a pig to fly. "What?" I asked testily.
"You need to butt out of this investigation. The only exception is if your intuition tells you from the comfort and safety of your own home exactly where we can find the guy who killed Allison Pierce. Until you're able to perform that little magic trick, you will not have anything more to do with this case. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," I said, my voice at sub zero.
"Then you'll stay away from this?"
"Of course, Dutch," I said. Liar, liar, pants on fire…
"Abby, I'm warning you. If I catch you anywhere near this I'm going to arrest you for obstruction of justice." Liar, liar, pants on fire…
Man, was I glad to have an inboard lie detector. I might have been scared off by the being arrested thing. "Like I said, Dutch, I'll back off. Now go on and do your little detective stuff. I'm going inside." With that I stepped around him, opened my front door and closed it without looking back. Game, set, match, Abby.
Eggy greeted me and I picked him up, cuddling him as I sighed into his fur. "Men!" I muttered. He must have understood completely, because he gave my cheek an extra-big slobbery kiss.
Chapter Seven
The next morning I woke up early with one thought I couldn't shake. What made Alyssa Pierce commit suicide two weeks before her wedding? Was she unstable to begin with? My intuitive phone kept ringing on this one, and I couldn't let it go. I just wasn't sure how to find out what really happened.
I got up and went downstairs, where I fixed breakfast for Eggy and me. I talked to him while I cooked his egg—he's a great listener—and consulted him on the topic. Unfortunately he's not such a great talker, and couldn't tell me much.
I sighed heavily as I sat down with my own egg and toast and drummed my fingers on the table. The only person who I could think of who might know what had happened to Alyssa was her fiance, Marco Ammarretti.
I went to the phone book and looked in the A's but couldn't find him. His number was probably unlisted. I went back and sat in front of my untouched and now cold breakfast. Suddenly, an idea came to me and I decided to skip breakfast altogether and get right to work on it. Quickly, I put my dish in the sink and rushed into my study to get the essential items I would need, which included several pieces of paper and some mailing envelopes. Bringing these items back to the kitchen table, I sat down and closed my eyes, intent on getting into the right frame of mind.
When I first came under Theresa's tutelage, she taught me a game that I discovered I was naturally very adept at and that has helped me develop my intuitive skills more than anything else. What she did was secretly cut out various pictures of people, places and colorful things from National Geographic, then place them in sealed security envelopes that you couldn't see through. Then she would give me a sheet of paper and have me focus on one envelope at a time and, when I was ready, she'd instruct me to describe from top to bottom on my sheet what colors, tastes, sounds, textures, smells and emotions I picked up from the envelope. Once I was finished with the written description, I would move to the bottom of the page and draw a very quick abstract sketch. When I was finished with the process—it took no longer than three minutes—I was allowed to open the envelope and see what I had described.
The results of this game always astounded me, as with almost eighty percent accuracy I was able to sketch a rough picture of whatever was in the envelope. I was even more adept at picking up emotions and colors—these I did with near one hundred percent accuracy. The trick, I'd learned, was to keep my logical mind out of it. If I just let the thoughts come, I was far more accurate than if I tried to interpret what I was getting. In other words, round, red and sweet is not always an apple.
My idea for getting a handle on Marco was to try a version of the game. I still wasn't sure I wanted to encounter Marco on my own. If he had killed Allison, then maybe he was also after me. By this time I wasn't trying to kid myself. Someone was definitely watching me, and it was giving me the willies.
When I felt centered and focused I opened my eyes again and pulled out five sheets of blank paper, setting them side-by-side across the tabletop. In the middle of the first four pages I wrote down the name of someone I knew well and on the fifth page I wrote down "Marco Ammarretti."
My intention was to leave as little to my imagination as possible, and having four other individuals to act as a control group would help keep my intuition on track. I had selected Theresa, Brett, Dave and Cat as my control group, thinking that I would know enough about them to be able to distinguish them from Marco once I had completed giving my intuitive impressions.
After writing down all four names, I carefully folded each piece of paper into thirds and stuffed each envelope with one of the five sheets of paper. I sealed the envelopes then closed my eyes, and began swirling them round and round the tabletop until I was positive I didn't know whose name was in which envelope. I then opened my eyes again an
d selected each envelope at random, numbering them one through five. I then set them off in a small pile to my right.
Next, I pulled out five more sheets of blank paper and I stacked these neatly in front of me. I then took a deep breath, grabbed the first envelope, picked up a pencil and closed my eyes, focusing my intuition on the name inside the envelope in my hand. When I felt the connection I opened my eyes and began to write.
Blue, salt, cool, slippery, rolling, sand, warm, wind, calling birds, thirsty, freedom, happiness, anticipation.
I picked up the next envelope and focused on it.
Black, darkness, peace…Nothing else came. That was all I got, which was strange, but I set that piece of paper aside and selected the next envelope.
Hurry, rushing, searching, anxious, wood, carpet, phone ringing, people talking, car exhaust, horns honking.
I set that aside and reached for the next envelope.
Sadness, overwhelming heavy, heavy sadness. Guilt, metal, pollution, acrid taste, tired, weary, lifting, straining, hurts to breathe, sadness, guilt.
For a moment I paused and regarded what I had written there; the sadness was so deep it was all-consuming. What if that envelope was Cat? Or Theresa? I almost opened it, but I only had one more to go, so I set aside my worry and continued.
Metal, car exhaust, movement, asphalt, stop motion, shoulder aching, metal clanging, walking, wood, barrier…
At that moment I heard my front door open and Dave called out from my foyer. I got up to greet him and noticed he was rubbing his shoulder.
"Good morning. What's up?" I asked, pointing to his shoulder.
"Ah, nothing, I think I slept on my shoulder wrong last night and it's a little sore. You got any aspirin?"
I smiled as I thought about what I'd just written. He obviously was the last envelope, and that was good because it meant I was getting accurate information. I rushed upstairs, got him the bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet, then hurried back to the kitchen to open the envelopes.
The first one had Theresa's name on it and I checked my watch to see the time difference. Six a.m. Pacific Coast time and she was already at the beach, lucky girl. The second envelope was her husband, Brett, and keeping with tradition, he was most likely still asleep, which was why I couldn't get much out of him.
The third envelope was my sister, still trying to pack sixteen hours into eight, I saw. The fourth envelope was Marco Ammarretti. I considered what I'd written about him for a long time. The sadness I picked up was so intense it left me nearly breathless. I noticed there were also feelings of guilt intermixed, but guilt caused by what? Murder?
Did he and Allison argue over her sister's death? I knew from Kelly the waitress that Allison's emotions were close to the surface; she'd slapped Dirk with little provocation. Had she incited Marco's temper by acting out violently against him and he'd overreacted?
I paced in the kitchen for a little while, considering all of it. Finally my curiosity got the best of me and I called Connie.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Connie, it's Abby. How are you?"
"Oh! Hi, Abby. I'm doing better. Is something wrong?"
"No, no—I just wanted to ask you about Marco, Alyssa's fiancé. You said you'd met him, right?"
"Yes, I'd see him practically every time I went to visit Allison. He all but lived with the girls."
"Do you happen to know how I can get in touch with him?"
"I don't have his home phone number, but I know he works at that Mazda dealership on Woodward and Twelve Mile. He's a mechanic there."
"Thanks, Connie, that's great. I'll see you at the services on Saturday."
"Good luck, Abby," she said and we disconnected.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment, indecision tugging at me. I'd be taking a huge chance going over there. However, if I took my car in for an oil change, I could see if he was there and if my radar picked up anything about him. That seemed like a viable plan so I zoomed upstairs, threw on jeans and a cotton shirt, then raced downstairs for my purse.
"Heading out?" Dave asked me.
"Yeah, I'm going to get my oil changed," I answered, waving good-bye to him as I left.
Ten minutes later I was pulling into the Mazda dealership and trying to locate the service garage. The dealership wasn't an attractive building, at least not to me. Large and boxy, it was constructed of big concrete blocks painted a brilliant shade of white. With its boxy construction and gleaming façade it looked a bit like a giant igloo in summer suburbia.
I wheeled around to the back and found the service garage. I pulled into the parking area beside it, got out and entered the office. The cashier, a pretty brunette who appeared to be no older than fifteen, looked up when I walked in, setting aside the magazine she'd been reading.
"Hi," I said with a friendly smile. "I'd like to get my oil changed and tires rotated, please." Truth be told, the car was due anyway.
The cashier said, "Keys" by way of reply and pushed a customer information form in front of me. I filled out the paperwork and handed back the form with my car key. I was told to wait in the lobby one door down. I wasn't sure who was watching me, so I followed orders and went next door, where freshly brewed coffee filled the air with a nutty aroma. A large woman sat in one of the chairs set in a U formation sipping noisily from her Styrofoam cup. She gave me an appraising look when I walked in, then went back to watching the game show that was blaring out from the television mounted on the front wall.
After a minute or two I nonchalantly moseyed out of the lobby, back out into the bright sunny day and walked around the building to a spot near one of the far walls where I had a pretty good look at the mechanics working on the cars inside the garage. The huge garage doors were all open, letting in as much air as possible, and I spotted six mechanics in total working on five cars which were hoisted up on mechanical lifts. The men all wore the same dark blue jumpsuits with their first names embroidered on a patch over their left breast. I spotted Marco immediately.
He was tall, with thick, wavy hair, slicked back with some kind of hair gel. His face sported a narrow nose that was slightly pointed at the end, high cheekbones, a square jaw and thin ruby lips. I could see a large Adam's apple and tufts of hair poking out from the V in his jumpsuit. He was a striking man with elegant fingers that deftly maneuvered nuts, bolts and wrenches with the talent of an artist. I watched him as he worked mostly with head bent, the weight of his sadness slumping his shoulders and causing him to pause at intervals and take a deep breath.
The other mechanics seemed to give him a wide berth, as they joked with each other under the bodies of the cars they worked on. Within a short time, Marco must have felt he was being watched because he looked in my direction, exposing brilliant green eyes, and in that moment I fired my radar at him. Several things flashed into my mind at once, but one in particular caused me to catch my breath in alarm.
Just as I was processing the information, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and I jumped slightly. I turned to see the garage manager staring quizzically at me. "Ms. Cooper?"
"Yes?" I said, feeling a little foolish.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. Your car's ready. You can pay the cashier and pick it up out front."
"Thank you," I said. I was still bothered by what I'd picked up from Marco, so I quickly added, "Listen, would it be possible for me to have a word with one of your mechanics? I swear I went to high school with that guy." I pointed to Marco, who was eyeing me suspiciously. "We're planning our high school reunion this year and I wanted to give him the details." Liar, liar, pants on fire…
"You remember his name?" the manager asked, testing me.
"If it's the same guy who was in my homeroom then his first name is Marco, and I believe his last name is Ammarretti?"
"Yeah, that's him. Wait here and I'll get him."
The manager trundled over to Marco and began speaking to him. I saw Marco look at me, trying to place the face and I gave him an encouraging
"really-I'm-harmless" smile. After a moment I saw him nod reluctantly and setting his wrench down, he walked over to me.
"Hello Marco," I said.
"Hi. Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm really not interested in going to the reunion. I never really liked high school and I've got a lot on my plate right now."
"I know, Marco. I'm so sorry to have misled you, but I'm not from your high school. My name is Abigail Cooper and I'm a psychic."
"Shit. You're the one that Allison went to," Marco said, his eyes looking mean.
"Yes, and that's why I'm here. I need to talk to you."
"Listen, lady, I'm not interested in your hocus-pocus. I think all you people are fakes, and you're not going to get a dime out of me so you might as well go on home now," he said as he turned away.
"Marco!" I called out desperately. "Please don't run your car into that tree!"
He stopped abruptly and turned to stare at me with wide eyes. "What did you say?" he asked.
"Listen, I am the real thing, and when I was standing here, I picked up on your plan to drive your car into a tree. It's near your home, isn't it? There's some sort of really big oak tree near your home, by a park of some kind—I think it's near a children's playground, am I right? And you've recently been thinking of ramming your car smack-dab into the middle of that tree, correct? But you'll wait until nighttime, won't you? You'll wait until there are no children around who could get hurt, right?"
He took a step back, reeling a little. "How could you know that? How could you possibly know that?"
"Because I am psychic, Marco. And I can tell you that killing yourself will absolutely not end your suffering. I know you're devastated by Alyssa's death, but you cannot escape that pain by ending your own life. The cosmos just doesn't work that way."
Marco walked over to a picnic bench under a nearby tree and sat down. I followed and sat beside him. A tear slid down his cheek and he wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a black grease mark that looked like war paint.
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Page 13
