"Touché," I said, bowing my head. After a moment I asked, "So what's with the FBI?"
"What?" he barked, looking sharply at me.
"The FBI. There's a connection between you and the FBI. Am I right?" I was focusing on my intuitive phone, and I continued. "Something about an interview. Oh! Are you applying to the FBI?"
"I cannot believe you know that! I haven't even told Milo," Dutch said, looking at me like he'd just caught me sifting through his personal mail.
"Do you want to know if you'll get in?" I asked, teasing him.
"No!" he said automatically, then waited a beat and added, "Unless you know it's a lock. Then you can tell me." There was the smallest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and I knew he was laughing at himself for giving in.
"Nothing in life is really a lock, Dutch, but I can tell you that there are a series of three intense interviews ahead for you, as well as a series of tests, both physical and mental, like a psychological profile or something. I feel like you're going to do really well, but you have major competition. There are only two slots open, and I think eight guys to select from. You'll need to study hard beforehand, but yes, I do feel like you'll get in. Just don't go in there expecting it. You still have to do your homework."
A wave of relief flashed over Dutch's features before he caught himself and reset his face. I noticed too that he'd been holding himself tightly, and his shoulders had noticeably loosened when he got my answer. He clicked off his e-mail, came around his desk and ruffled my hair. I watched him as he moved to the doorway, then turned and said, "Come on, Edgar, let's go eat."
Dutch made breakfast of eggs, bacon and hash browns, and the moment he took out the carton of eggs I slapped my forehead and called the dog kennel. Luckily they opened at seven and said it was no problem to keep Eggy for a few extra days. After breakfast we both got cleaned up and headed to Dutch's car for the ride over to the storage facility.
On the way Dutch made small talk by mentioning what he'd learned in the book about Edgar Cayce. He was talking about one of Cayce's more famous accounts about avoiding an elevator ride because when the doors opened he'd looked in and the passengers' auras had disappeared. He'd known something terrible was about to happen and hadn't gotten on board. A moment later the cable to the elevator had snapped and the passengers had all tumbled to the ground floor.
"I remember hearing about that story," I said. "I never read much about Mr. Cayce, but I know he was a remarkable talent."
Dutch lost himself for a moment in contemplation, then almost shyly asked me, "Can you see auras?"
I smiled in surprise at the question and answered, "When I focus I can."
Another beat, then, "Can you see mine?"
I hid my smile and said, "Probably. Would you like me to try?"
"If you want to," he answered noncommittally.
I turned in my seat to face him, just as he stopped at a stoplight. He looked at me, smiling, as if saying "cheese" for the camera. It was damn hard not to laugh, but I managed. I let my eyes go unfocused and looked at the space just above Dutch's head, and in seconds saw the white envelope that is the core of everyone's aura. I expanded outward and waited and then in a flash I had the brilliant Technicolor snapshot of his aura. "Oooooh," I said when I had it clearly in my vision.
"What do you see?" he asked, a hint of excitement and anticipation in his voice.
"Well, it's-very pretty," I said, smirking at him. He scowled at me in a "get on with it," way, so I continued. "Around the top of your head there's this brilliant peacock blue, then it fades out over here," I said, pointing to his left. "It becomes lighter, like a soft turquoise. Now, coming down your trunk, it gets softer again, with traces of green and yellow, but there's a bit of brown somewhere near your feet. I can't really tell because you're sitting down, but my guess is that one of your legs or feet is a problem area that needs attention."
"Brown means trouble?"
"Sometimes. So does gray."
"I have a bad Achilles tendon that I strained the other day when I was out for a run. Could that be it?"
"Most likely," I said.
"So what do the other colors mean?"
"I'm not an expert on aura colors, but my feeling is that blue is typically the color of a thinker and an analyst. It would suggest that you are very analytical in your thought process and that you like things organized and functional. You're not so hot with spatial relationships, like geometry is tougher for you."
"That's true," he said.
"You're about order and structure—one plus one equals two. It explains why this psychic stuff is a difficult concept for you to understand analytically. The interesting part is this softer turquoise, because my feeling is that this is a recent change or shift in your aura, and this would suggest a softening of the hard-lined analyst in you. It's saying that you're opening your mind up and allowing for different possibilities. It suggests that you're evolving." I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
My reward was a skeptical eyebrow. "Your aura can change color?"
"Absolutely. For example, if you become ill with the flu, your aura can get patchy or gray, and when you're in love it can take on a red or pink hue. If you're working on something creative, it can take on a yellow or orange cast. It can change many times over the course of your lifetime, taking on a different shape, color or even density."
"Hmmm," Dutch said, lost in thought. I took another peek and noticed even more turquoise. I smiled in spite of myself.
A minute or two later he asked, "What color is your aura?"
I looked at him, again surprised by the question. He was genuinely interested, and I found myself liking him more and more. I thought back to the time when I first learned to see auras and was practicing by staring in the mirror. I recalled with a smile the moment I'd first seen the Technicolor dazzle of my own auric field. It was the first time I'd ever really thought I was beautiful. "At the crown of my head it's a gold color, and around my shoulders it becomes bright indigo. Sometimes it's a little more purple, sometimes it's a little more blue, but except for the top of my head it's all indigo shoulders to floor."
"What do your colors mean?"
"Both gold and indigo are indicative of psychic ability. The gold represents a strong tendency for claircognizant ability."
"What's that?" he asked.
"Claircognisense is Latin for 'clear-thinking.' It means that I can know something without really knowing why I know it. The indigo represents my other abilities, like clairsentience—clear feeling—and clairvoyance—clear seeing."
"So what you're saying is that you get your information from a bunch of different inputs?"
"Exactly."
"Cool," Dutch said, nodding his head.
Just then we reached the storage facility and Dutch pulled into a parking space in front of the office. We got out and walked inside. Behind the counter was a very short woman with beautiful soft brown eyes, long braided hair, and a figure as round as she was tall. For a moment she reminded me of the character in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who ate all the blueberry gum and blew up big as a balloon. "Good afternoon," she said warmly.
"Good afternoon," Dutch answered and flashed his badge, "I'm Detective Rivers from the Royal Oak Police Department and we're here on an investigation."
The woman's smile never wavered, and she didn't look very surprised. Dutch continued, "We'd like to get into the storage unit for Marco Ammarretti."
"Do you have a warrant?"
I looked on as Dutch almost imperceptibly blanched, then flashed an even bigger smile. "No, ma'am, not yet, and I'd hate to have to tie up a judge's time on this. The belongings in the storage unit previously were the property of an Alyssa Pierce, and we just want to look through her things for a few minutes. We think it may help solve the murder of her sister, Allison Pierce. You may have read about it in the paper…"
"Yes, I heard about that. But the storage unit is rented by Marco Ammarretti, and
if I understand it, you are investigating him for that murder, isn't that correct?"
Dutch's face went the faintest tint of pink and I could read his frustration. "Yes, ma'am. However, we're actually trying to clear Mr. Ammarretti, and that's why we need to get into the storage unit …"
"Then by all means come back when you have a warrant, Detective Rivers."
I couldn't believe it—Dutch Rivers, bested by a blueberry. Dutch continued to force his smile at the woman, willing her to change her mind but she stood her ground, smiling back just as fiercely.
As I looked at the woman my intuitive phone began ringing, and I thought I might as well try; we weren't getting anywhere using Dutch's good-cop approach. "Are you the owner here?" I asked.
The woman turned her attention to me. "Yes, I'm Peg. I'm the owner."
"Hi, Peg. I hope you don't mind, but my name is Abby Cooper and I'm a psychic intuitive. I'm helping Detective Rivers with this investigation, and I have a message for you. May I share it?" This was a gamble, I knew, but most people, whether they believed in psychics or not, would want to hear the message.
There was the smallest change in the smile Peg held cemented onto her face, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. I waited patiently while she mulled that one over. "I suppose so…" She sounded unsure and I knew she thought this was a trick, but at least she hadn't kicked us out yet.
"Terrific. This occasionally happens to me when I'm around someone who's struggling with an issue. I'm so glad you're open to hearing the message. Okay," I said, rubbing my hands together for effect. "I feel there's this matter of insurance going on, and there's a lot of stress about someone owing you money but they're not paying up. It feels like there are these two separate events here, like there was a storm or natural disaster and something got damaged and the insurance company isn't paying up. Does this make sense to you?"
Peg looked taken aback, her hand on her chest. Her smile had disappeared and her mouth was slightly agape. It took a moment for her to realize I was waiting for her to answer me, but finally she said, "Yes, it does. We were adding some storage sheds onto the back of the property but a big windstorm came through about three months ago and knocked them down. The insurance company has been fighting us about a settlement."
"Uh-huh," I said, nodding. "There's also something about a fire too, but that feels like it wasn't here—oh my God!" I said, getting a rather intense flash. "Did your house burn down?"
Peg's eye's welled up and tears slid down her cheeks. "Yes, last year. No one was hurt, thank God, but our house did burn down and we lost most of our belongings."
"Now you guys are trying to rebuild, right? But the insurance company is giving you the runaround, like they don't believe that a fire and a windstorm could hit you all in one year, or that they don't think that what you're estimating as the value of your stuff is the correct value."
"You're right on both counts! They've come very close to accusing us of arson!" Peg was getting worked up and bouncing on her feet.
"I feel like you've already taken this to an attorney, but he's dragging his heels, right?"
"Yes!"
"And you may be considering taking it to someone else, like a female attorney, right?"
"This is unbelievable! I just told my husband last week that we needed to call a friend of mine whose sister does this sort of litigation."
"You should definitely make that call. It feels like the guy you've got right now is a minnow when what you need is a shark—and trust me, this woman is a shark. She isn't lazy like this other lawyer and you really need to call her. Follow your own gut on this. It's right on the money."
Peg blinked several times and wiped her watery eyes with her sleeve. She looked again at me and cautiously asked, "Can you tell me if this will turn out okay? I mean, will the insurance company give us what they owe us?"
I looked at Dutch a little conspiratorially, then looked at my watch and answered, "Peg, I'd love to answer that, but if we're going to get downtown and get a judge to issue the search warrant we have to leave immediately, right, Detective?" I asked, turning to Dutch.
"Time's a'wasting," Dutch answered, tapping his watch and looking stern.
"See?" I said to her, "I'm sure you understand." I smiled just as brightly as Peg had earlier and turned to walk toward the door.
"Wait!" she said quickly, coming around the corner with a ring of keys. "I'm sure if you're working to clear Mr. Ammarretti, he won't mind. Just don't tell him I let you in, okay?" She scooted around us and set a fast pace in the direction of the storage sheds. We had to trot to keep up.
Peg had the shed unlocked in a flash. She turned to me and said, "So, Abby, you were saying?"
I looked at her and patted her fleshy arm reassuringly. "Peg, I feel like this is going to go before some sort of authority figure, a judge or an arbitrator or something, and when that happens the truth will be revealed and you'll get your money. One thing you should look into is whether the insurance company has done this sort of thing to other clients as well. I'm getting the sense that they have an unspoken policy not to pay up, or to settle for less than they should. It seems like there's a real pattern here, and that's why you need to change attorneys. I think this other woman may have handled previous cases with this insurance company and either knows what they're all about or she'll connect some dots that your other lawyer hasn't. It could take a little time but there will be a resolution for you."
Peg looked at me, tears again dribbling from her eyes, and then threw herself at me in a tremendous hug. "Ooohmph!" I said, as I tried to suck in air.
"Thank you, Abby! Thank you!" To my great relief she let go and stepped back, waving a pudgy hand at the storage shed. "Take as long as you need, Detective," and with that she waddled back to her office.
I smiled triumphantly at Dutch, who was looking at me and shaking his head. "Awfully smug, aren't you?"
"Awfully," I replied as I turned to the shed. Dutch stood back and waited. I'd been the one who wanted to come here; this was my call. I stood at the entrance to the storage unit and closed my eyes, waiting for a connection. Finally, a soft whisper came to me and I moved into the unit, which was cluttered with furniture, boxes and bags of belongings. I felt a tug on my right and moved a bicycle and two picture frames out of the way. I looked at a set of boxes in front of me and noticed that the one on top was the only box that wasn't taped shut. I stepped forward and lifted the box; it was heavy. I carried it awkwardly out into the daylight, unfolded the flaps and looked inside. The box held mostly paperback romance novels, and I could see nothing out of the ordinary, other than the contents had obviously been shifted around. I looked at the side of the box; it was labeled bookshelf. What was here? I began to pull out the books and lay them on the concrete, Dutch watching me patiently. As I sifted through I discovered what Allison had been looking for when she'd come here a few weeks earlier. I pulled out a worn leather-bound book with the words journal in flaking gold print embossed on the cover. I opened it and saw that one of the entries was from nine years ago. I looked back at the box and pulled out more books but I found only one more journal, this one eight years old. I put the romance novels back in the box, noticing that they filled only half of it. Something else had been in here. I was sure of it—probably the journals from the past seven years. My intuition, however, was screaming that I had all I needed. I opened the first journal and flipped pages, but nothing out of the ordinary popped out at me and there was no incriminating note tucked safely away in it.
"Should we keep looking?" Dutch asked.
"No, this is all we need," I said, standing. Dutch took the journals from me and quickly scanned a few pages. "Abby," he said, confused, "these are from nine years ago. How are they going to help?"
"I'm not sure yet, but I'll keep you posted," I said as I returned the box to its place in the storage unit.
Dutch looked at me with skepticism but held his tongue, and we locked the unit and moseyed back to his car.
/>
On the drive back to Dutch's house his cell phone chirped, and with one practiced quick movement he flipped open his phone and barked, "Rivers,"
The conversation was abrupt, Dutch saying only, "Right. Meet you back at my place in twenty." He closed the phone and slid it back onto his belt.
"Who was that?" I asked.
"Milo. He's got something he wants to share with us. He's meeting us back at the house."
I almost asked him then, since we were already on the topic anyway, if Milo had called the night before, but I held my tongue. Dutch must have caught my indecision because he asked, "What?"
"Oh, nothing," I said. "I guess I'm just tired. I didn't sleep very well—you know, strange house, late night phone call…"
"Yeah, sorry about that. Hey, you want to stop and grab some lunch on the way back?"
So now it's a game of dodgeball we're playing huh? Okay, so maybe he's a private guy, and his late-night correspondence was none of my business. It was probably nothing anyway, an old college roommate looking him up, a navy buddy home on leave—something innocent and meaningless, right? Left side heavy feeling. Crap.
Milo was waiting for us by the time we got to the house. As we pulled up, I noticed how much charm the place had. A two-story Tudor, the house was yellow with black shutters, and well-manicured shrubbery lined the front in crisp rectangles. The walkway looked new, and a fine pattern of brick led the way to the front door. I marveled at how well maintained his house was—and felt a new pang of embarrassment that he'd seen my home in such a state of disarray.
Dutch carried the chili dogs and fries we'd purchased, I carried the Cokes and Alyssa's journals and Milo held the door open. We went into the kitchen and spread out the food, then took our seats. "What'd you find out about our boy Chad?" Dutch asked.
"I actually tracked him down this morning. Turns out he was a hundred miles away helping a buddy of his move. He was gone from Friday afternoon and didn't get back until Monday night. He had no idea his girlfriend was even MIA, and so far two other people have corroborated his story."
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Page 22
