“You can’t possibly know that,” Officer O’Reilly says.
“Piper can,” Mitchell insists before looking at me for confirmation. The problem is I’m not sure.
“Play the game, Mitchell.”
“Game?” Officer O’Reilly is getting more confused by the minute. “What are you talking about? This is a crime scene. We don’t have time for games. We should be doing real police work.”
“Ignore her,” Mitchell tells me. “Deep breaths.”
I focus on Mitchell’s face and clear my mind. Then I close my eyes and bob my head to let him know I’m ready.
“What’s your favorite book genre?”
“Mystery.”
“What is your parents’ dog’s name?”
“Max.”
“What did Tony Trevino drink every morning?”
“Coffee.”
“Was Tony Trevino killed before his body was set on fire?”
“Yes.”
“What should you be focusing on in this barn?”
“Silver.”
“What clue is going to point us to the killer?”
“Blanket.”
I open my eyes because the last two responses shook me a bit. Still, I got more answers than I usually do before being jolted out of the game. “I’m not sure I understand what those last two mean.”
Officer O’Reilly raises her hand in the air like she’s in a classroom. “I’ll wager a guess.”
I’m surprised she remained quiet during the game, but I guess she’s trying to figure me out and wanted to see for herself what I can do. “Go right ahead.”
“You think there might be some of the killer’s DNA on the blanket we found underneath the body.”
DNA. “Yes, my senses are saying there’s DNA there.”
“That’s great,” Mitchell says.
“Yeah, but we’re already testing the blanket for DNA, so that’s nothing new.” Officer O’Reilly narrows her eyes. “What was the thing about silver?”
I look around the barn. The trough is steel, not silver, but maybe my senses were referring to the color. I walk over to it, and Mitchell and Officer O’Reilly follow.
“So, you named two things we already knew about. Let me guess,” she says. “Since you believe the body was burned and then extinguished before it was placed on the picnic blanket, you’re assuming the killer used the trough to contain the fire.”
That’s actually a really good guess. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I’ll need to read the trough.”
“Read it?”
“Like I did with the coffee mug in the house,” I say.
“You held the mug. Did I miss something else?” She seems genuinely confused.
“Just stand back, and let Piper work. Everything will become clear soon enough,” Mitchell says. “Piper does this sort of thing all the time for us.”
Officer O’Reilly holds up both hands. “Don’t let me stop you.” She sits down on the edge of the trough.
“Actually, you can’t be touching the object I’m trying to read. You might interfere with the energy on it.”
“Plus, this is a crime scene,” Mitchell adds. “You shouldn’t be sitting on evidence anyway.”
Officer O’Reilly stands. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t touch anything without gloves, and neither should she.”
I need to be in direct contact with the objects I’m reading, so wearing gloves isn’t an option for me. “Chief Johansen is aware of how my abilities work. He won’t have a problem with me touching the trough.”
“I’m assuming it’s been dusted for prints already anyway,” Mitchell says.
“According to the reports, yes.” Officer O’Reilly nods.
“That might pose an issue,” I say.
“Just do your best.” Mitchell places his hand on the small of my back.
I take a deep breath before placing my right hand on the edge of the trough.
Smoke, gasoline, and pine fill the air.
“Whoa.” Mitchell has his arms around me, and my right hand is now in his. “Breathe. Don’t pass out on me again.”
“Is she pregnant or something? She’s very prone to fainting.”
“No!” Mitchell and I both say. Neither one of us has any intention of having children. Not with our line of work or my abilities. Besides, we are taking our relationship at a snail’s pace since we’re both new to this whole commitment thing. I’m not even sure I ever want to get married, although I know Mitchell has contemplated it.
“Sorry. It was a logical question to ask, though.”
“It’s the smell of smoke that I keep reacting to.”
“Can I at least point out that sensitivity to smells is also a common side effect of pregnancy?”
“No, you can’t,” Mitchell says. “Officer O’Reilly, you are new to the WPD, so let me explain something to you. Topics of conversation should remain professional at all times. Piper’s private life, as well as mine, is off-limits. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir. My sincerest apologies to you both. It won’t happen again.”
My senses are telling me she isn’t trying to offend either of us. Her mind just works a little differently than most people’s. I can relate to that. The big difference between us is Officer O’Reilly has this innate need to explain everything in the most rational manner. I, on the other hand, can’t explain most of what I sense. It’s going to make it very difficult for the two of us to work together even if we are trying to get along.
“In my vision, I smelled smoke, gasoline, and pine.”
“There are plenty of pine trees around here,” Officer O’Reilly says. “Those are logical ingredients to make a fire.”
Logical. Of course, she’d say that.
“Actually, pine is not a good wood for burning. It stinks,” Mitchell says, but it’s a weak defense.
“I just know that’s what I smelled.”
“What about burning flesh?” Mitchell asks.
“No.”
“How can that be?” Officer O’Reilly asks. “That smell should overpower the rest.”
She’s right. Unless the fire I’m sensing was lit before the victim was burned. “That’s it.”
“What’s it?” Mitchell asks.
“I should have seen it before. When I touched Tony Trevino’s coffee mug, I sensed what he sensed that morning. He did touch the mug, but he was never able to remove it from the cabinet.”
“You mean he grabbed the handle, but something stopped him from pulling the mug out of the cabinet,” Mitchell says, catching on to where I’m going with this.
“Yes. The smell of smoke stopped him. I think something was burning inside the barn, right here in this trough. That’s what drew him out here. He knew something in the barn was on fire.”
“We have absolutely no proof of that,” Officer O’Reilly says, looking around as if trying to show me there’s no visible evidence to back up my claim.
“We have Piper’s word. That’s all the proof I need.” Mitchell crosses his arms. He’s dead wrong, though. The rest of the WPD might be on my side, but without proof, a jury wouldn’t convict anyone.
“Mitchell, she’s right. We need actual evidence.”
Officer O’Reilly gestures to me. “See. Where’s the proof?”
“Then we’ll follow up with the test results from the picnic blanket. Piper said there’s DNA on it.”
“Like I said, that’s already in the works. What do we do in the meantime?” Officer O’Reilly stares at Mitchell, waiting for an answer.
I need to have another vision. One that actually tells us something. But I’m not sure I can do that with Officer O’Reilly here. She might not be interfering with my ability to have visions, but she’s definitely getting inside my head, and that’s making me put up a wall I can’t seem to get past.
Keeping my focus on Mitchell, I dip my head ever so slightly in Officer O’Reilly’s direction. It takes him a moment to realize what I’m doin
g, but when he does, his eyes widen.
“O’Reilly, I think the best plan of action is to split up. You go get a rush on those DNA results. Pressure the lab to get back to you with something ASAP. Piper and I will stay here and talk to Mrs. Trevino a little more.”
“You’re kicking me off the crime scene?” She looks like a wounded puppy with those giant pleading eyes.
“No. Nothing like that. I just think we need to move forward as quickly as possible. The answers we need might be on that blanket. You go get those answers for us while we try to find out who had motive to kill Tony Trevino.”
“So splitting up is typical procedure for you?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And you can’t send Piper for the result because the lab won’t give them to her since she’s not an officer.” Her tone and need for reassurance shows me how desperate she is to make a good impression on Mitchell.
Mitchell nods. “And as lead detective on this case, I need to stay here to question Mrs. Trevino.”
Officer O’Reilly gives one small bob of her head now that things have been explained in a way that makes sense to her. “I’ll report back the second I have any news.”
“Thank you.” Mitchell nods to her and watches her leave the barn. “Sorry about that. She’s great at her job and a nice person, but she’s very by the book.”
“I’ve noticed. My senses are telling me she doesn’t dislike me. She just doesn’t understand me, and that makes her uncomfortable.”
“Do you think you might see more now that she’s gone?”
That’s what I’m hoping. “Let’s find out.” I open up my senses, hoping they’ll guide me to something in the barn that I can get a good read off of. The trough has been cleaned, so there isn’t much energy there left to read. And I don’t want to pass out from the smoke again. I would like to know if the killer lured Tony Trevino out here by starting a fire in the trough or if the killer was trying to burn something and Tony caught him in the act. That would tell us if this was premeditated murder or an act of passion in the moment.
Mitchell is pretending to search the area for clues, but I can feel his gaze on me. The problem with fires is they tend to erase a lot of evidence. I think he knows as well as I do that we need to talk to the person who found the body. Then we might be able to establish what happened.
“I need to speak with Tony Trevino’s stepson,” I say.
Mitchell doesn’t look surprised. “He lives in the small carriage house on the other side of the property.” He leads the way. “Nathan Spicer is twenty-seven. He’s Marissa Trevino’s son from a previous marriage.”
“She was young when she had him,” I say.
“She’d just turned twenty when he was born. The marriage only lasted about six months. Then Nathan’s dad up and left. He moved across the country. Neither Nathan nor Marissa has seen or heard from him since.”
That means he got his girlfriend pregnant and was either forced to marry her or had a brief moment where he wanted to do what he thought was the right thing and commit to his new family. But he couldn’t handle it, so he ran.
Mitchell gives me a sideways glance. “You’re thinking about how you never want a family, aren’t you?”
“I have a family, and I’m perfectly happy with it the way it is.” I’m an only child, and with my abilities making it difficult to come into contact with people, I’m better off with just a few close loved ones in my life. The only people other than Mom and Dad in my life are Mitchell, Marcia, and Jezebel. It’s perfection in my eyes.
“You don’t ever feel like maybe you’re missing out on anything?” he asks.
“Not at all. I have people I love and trust with my life. What more could I ask for?”
“Abilities aside, would you ever want a child?” He knows I don’t want to pass what I do on to a child. My psychic abilities surfaced when I was twelve, and I was robbed of a childhood after that. Granted Dad was a big-name police detective who was working a case that got national attention at the time. I was thrown into the spotlight, ridiculed by nonbelievers and painted as a hero by those who did believe I was the one who found that child actress before she was killed. I shake my head, not wanting to relive the experience I’ve tried hard to bury in my past.
“You know I’d never have a child as well-behaved as Jezebel,” I say in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.
“Not with me,” Mitchell laughs. “The kid would probably be a terror.” His face turns white. “Not that I’m implying we should have kids. I don’t plan to procreate.”
I smirk. “You always know how to put your foot in your mouth at the most opportune moments.”
“At least it made you smile. Sort of.”
The carriage house is in front of us now. It’s identical to the main house in color scheme, but none of these windows have flower boxes in them. Mitchell rings the bell. The curtain in the front window moves, and I see a head for a brief moment before the curtain falls back into place. About thirty seconds later, the front door opens.
“Can I help you?” the man asks. He’s short, probably only about five foot six since he’s got maybe two inches on me, and his head is shaved, although I’m guessing by the faint hairline visible he shaves it to cover up the fact that he’s already starting to go bald.
“Nathan Spicer?” Mitchell asks.
“Yeah.” He puts his hand on the doorframe, making it clear we aren’t welcome inside.
“I’m Detective Brennan with the Weltunkin PD. This is Piper Ashwell. We need to speak with you about Tony Trevino.”
“I already gave a statement.” He starts to close the door, but Mitchell blocks it with his foot.
“Mr. Spicer, you discovered your stepfather’s body Monday morning. Given most of the evidence was burned with your stepfather, you are our best lead, and I can promise you I will keep coming back to ask you more questions until all my curiosities are satisfied. So why don’t you take the time to speak to us now so we can avoid future visits?”
Nathan looks like he’s about to go off on Mitchell, which will not end well, so I intervene. “Mr. Spicer, I’m sure it was a traumatic experience for you. It’s the WPD’s responsibility to make sure that you receive any care you need after such an event.”
“Care? I’m not hurt.” He gestures to himself. “I didn’t get burned.”
Why would he say that? I was under the impression Tony’s body had already been extinguished before Nathan discovered him. “Yes, we’re aware the body was no longer on fire when you found it. I was talking about counseling for you after finding your stepfather murdered.”
“You mean therapy?” Nathan scoffs. “I don’t need therapy. I hated Tony. He put me to work on this farm when I was nine. That’s when he met my mom. I was nothing more than hired help he didn’t actually have to pay.”
“So you didn’t have a good relationship with your stepfather?” Mitchell asks.
“Let’s just say I wasn’t sad when I found him burned to a crisp in the barn. In fact, I’d love to shake the hand of whoever did this to him.”
I don’t have to look at Mitchell to know he’s thinking Nathan had motive to kill Tony. We haven’t even begun to ask questions about the events of Monday morning, and Nathan’s already moved himself to the top of Mitchell’s suspect list.
Chapter Four
“Could we come inside to talk?” I ask Nathan since we’re still standing on his porch.
Nathan’s form stiffens even more, but he removes his hand from the door and crosses his arms in front of him. “I have nothing more to say. I found him. He was dead. I’m not sad about it.”
“Well, I have a lot of questions that still need answers,” Mitchell says. “And the first question is would you like to answer them inside your house or down at the station?” If Nathan wants to play hardball, he’s going to lose. Mitchell doesn’t back down from a challenge. Hence, he finally weaseled himself into my life.
“Mr. Spicer,” I say, “I want to poi
nt out that forcing us to bring you to the station is going to make you look guilty. You already admitted to not liking your stepfather, so I suggest you help us find his killer before anyone points the finger in your direction.” Also, getting inside his house will help me pick up on whether or not Nathan would kill Tony.
“Fine. But I have to exercise the horses soon, so you need to make this quick.”
Mitchell’s shoulders tense, and I know he wants to make a comment about how he’ll decide how long this interrogation takes, but to his credit, he doesn’t say a word.
Nathan finally steps aside to let us in. The room we walk into is a small kitchen off the garage. There’s a tiny round table in the center, which Nathan motions to. He doesn’t offer us drinks or anything, which is fine by me since it looks like this place hasn’t been cleaned in months. The small counter is layered with a sticky-looking film I can’t identify.
Mitchell pulls out a chair for me, and I sit. Nathan claims the other chair, which leaves Mitchell to stand behind me. “Mr. Spicer, why don’t you walk us through what happened yesterday morning.”
He leans back in his chair. “I woke up at six, went to the barn, and found Tony looking like a crispy critter.” He laughs.
“Why did you hate your stepfather so much?” I ask. It can’t just be because he made him work on the farm since Nathan was a kid. It’s not uncommon for children growing up on farms to pitch in and help with the animals.
“Like I said, I was nine when my mom married that loser. We didn’t have much money, but Mom found this basketball coach who worked with me for pretty cheap. I loved basketball and dreamed of playing professionally. Tony said I didn’t need to be wasting their money on a sport I’d never be good at on account of my size. So he put an end to those lessons and put me to work here.”
There’s more to it. I can tell by his body language. Mitchell must sense it, too, because he says, “Go on.”
Nathan bobs a shoulder. “That’s it. I was a boy with a dream, and Tony crushed it in seconds. I got over it, and it showed me the kind of man he was. That’s why I’m not sad in the least that he’s gone. Now maybe we can sell this farm and move on with our lives.”
Fight Fire with Foresight (Piper Ashwell Psychic P.I. Book 12) Page 3
