A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery)

by Victoria Laurie

  “Promises, promises,” Candice said, grabbing the phone again to hang up on Brice.

  We walked in silence through the terminal to the tram at LAX. Well, I walked. Candice mostly stomped.

  A while later, after we’d gotten our bags and boarded the shuttle that would take us to get our rental car, I said, “I don’t get why Brice has got his panties in such a wad over you being here with me. I mean, we work together on bureau cases all the time.”

  Candice glared out the window. I had a feeling Brice had said something that’d really pushed a button with her, but I couldn’t figure out what it might’ve been. She revealed it when she said, “It’s Whitacre. He made it clear that I wasn’t welcome in his territory.”

  I blinked. “Wait, what? Why would he do that? Do you two know each other or something?”

  Candice shifted her steely gaze to me. “He oversees the Vegas bureau too.”

  “Ahhh,” I said as understanding dawned. “Yeah. They don’t love us so much out there, do they?”

  Candice rolled her eyes. “Oh, they love you, Abby. It’s me they have a major grudge against.”

  “Because of that Mafia guy who wanted to take you out to the desert, bury you up to your neck, and let the coyotes use your face as a chew toy if you didn’t prove to him that you were really his loyal and trusted friend?”

  The woman next to me turned her head sharply to look at us. “Yeah,” Candice said. “Because of that.”

  There was some shuffling in the shuttle as the woman got up and moved several seats away. Some people are so sensitive. “So what does Whitacre not wanting you in his territory mean, exactly? You’re not allowed to come with me to the L.A. office?”

  Candice had been standing for the ride, holding the pole in front of me. She let go of it and scooted into the seat next to mine. “Not sure, Sundance. What does that radar say about the situation?”

  I switched on the old radar and focused on the dilemma for a minute. “We’re damned if we do and we’re damned if we don’t,” I told her.

  “Then let’s be damned if we do,” she said.

  I considered her stoic expression. “Your being here is politically dicey territory for Brice, right? Because it’s gonna remind Whitacre about Vegas and your . . . connections.”

  She pointed a finger gun at me. “Nothing gets by you.”

  “Then what’re you doing here, Cassidy?” I said softly, using my favorite nickname for her.

  “You needed me more than Brice needs me to stay home,” she said simply.

  “That’s true,” I said, because it was, but the guilt of it still tugged uncomfortably at me.

  The shuttle bus pulled to a stop and we waited our turn to get off and head over to the express kiosk to check in and get our keys for the rental car.

  “There,” Candice said minutes later when we were searching for the car.

  “Huh,” I said, a bit surprised. Brice had reserved an SUV. Definitely a pricier car for a two-week rental.

  Candice gave my arm a nudge. “Underneath all that cold, professional armor, Brice does his best to look out for you.”

  “You both do,” I said, heading over to the driver’s side.

  Candice beat me to it. “How about I drive?” she said sweetly.

  “Uh . . . ,” I said. “This is awkward. See, I was sorta hoping to arrive at the hotel in one piece.”

  “You were, huh?” she said, never moving away from the door and holding her hand out expectantly for the set of keys I was currently clutching.

  “Yeah. Crazy as this may sound, Candice, I had my fingers crossed that today wasn’t going to be my last. And if I let you drive, that sorta cuts my odds in half.”

  “I drive you all over town at home,” Candice said.

  “True, but this is L.A. And L.A. traffic is unforgiving. And your driving calls for a lot of forgiving.” Candice glared at me. “Just sayin’,” I added hastily.

  “Fine,” she said. “You drive. But don’t ask me to help you navigate.”

  “No problem,” I said. We hopped in and I smiled sweetly when I noticed the onboard navigation system. “No problem at all.”

  That got me a scowl from my bestie, but I wasn’t at all sorry. Candice drove like a person with an attitude like, “You only live once!” and “Only the good die young!” and “Booyah, mother firecrackers!” In other words, recklessly. It was a miracle we’d been in only a couple of accidents together.

  Still, driving in L.A. will make you wish you’d let someone else—even someone reckless—take the wheel. And I now know that from experience. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I needed a drink. Something stiff, strong, and accompanied by an identical twinsie. “Oh, God, let there be a minibar!” I whispered as I parked the car in the hotel lot.

  “This is nice,” Candice said, looking up at our digs.

  “Maybe there’s a hotel bar!” I said.

  “When do you have to meet with Whitacre?” she asked.

  I got out of the car and made my way to the back to get my bag. “I don’t know. Brice said Whitacre would call me. Probably tomorrow morning.” At that exact moment my phone rang. “Son of a peach pit,” I growled.

  Candice appeared amused. “You better answer,” she said when I simply stood there, scowling at my phone.

  “Crap on a cracker,” I muttered, then swiped my finger across the screen. “This is Abby.”

  “Mrs. Rivers,” a male voice said. “This is Director Whitacre. I trust you’ve landed safely and arrived at your hotel.”

  My eyes narrowed. We’d done exactly that, and I wondered that he seemed so certain of it. “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  “After you check in, I’d like you to come to the office and meet a few members of my team. You’ll be working with a select group of agents at first and I’d prefer to make the introductions as soon as possible.”

  Double crap on a cracker. “Of course, sir. Give me about an hour and I’ll see you at your offices.”

  “Good. Oh, and please leave Ms. Fusco behind to enjoy her visit to L.A. She might consider taking in some sightseeing while she’s here. We’ll only be needing your expertise for now.”

  Before I could even answer, the director hung up. “Good Lord,” I said, staring at my phone. “What an asshole!”

  “What’s the deal?” Candice asked.

  I scowled. “Whitacre told me to come alone. He thinks you should go be a tourist.”

  To my surprise, Candice chuckled. “Yeah, I figured he might play hardball.”

  “I’m not leaving you behind,” I said. “Either he lets you come with me or I don’t work for him.”

  Candice swung her arm across my shoulders and pulled me gently toward the entrance to the hotel. “Abs, you gotta learn to pick your battles, honey. I’m here for moral support and backup. That doesn’t require me to follow you around like a puppy. I can hang out until you need me.”

  I glanced sideways at her. “You say that like you’re pretty sure I’ll need you.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t you always?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “Sometimes I need Dutch. Or Oscar. Or even Brice.”

  “Noted,” she said with a hint of mirth in her voice. “Come on, let’s get our room keys and check out that minibar.”

  “I have to meet Whitacre in an hour,” I reminded her.

  She winked. “Did he tell you to come sober?”

  “I kinda think that was implied. He’s probably assuming I’ll show up fresh as a daisy and sharp as a tack.”

  “Men and their assumptions,” she said, making a tsking sound.

  * * *

  Exactly one hour later I came out of the parking structure next to 11000 Wilshire Boulevard on steady feet but thirsty for a martini. There’d been no minibar in the room, but there had been a restaurant bar on the main floor
and Candice had sauntered in like she owned the place. She’d ordered me to eat something before I left to meet Whitacre, and I’d scarfed down a cup of clam chowder and an iced tea while she’d sipped on a glass of single malt that was definitely going on the room tab. I had a feeling the bar bill would climb steadily over the course of our stay.

  Trying to find my second wind, I approached the massive Federal Building and realized that it’d been used in many a backdrop for dozens of movies and TV shows I’d seen. For the record, it’s even more impressive up close.

  I tried not to feel intimidated as I headed across the pavilion and into the massive lobby. By contrast, our bureau office in Austin is tiny. I mean, we’re across the hall from a dermatologist and an insurance company. The Wilshire Federal Building is a huge structure almost entirely devoted to government business. It’d make any newcomer quake in her modest three-inch heels.

  Once I was through the doors, I looked around for a directory or someone I could ask to point me in the direction of the FBI offices, but before I could even get my bearings, I felt a light tap on my elbow and someone said, “Mrs. Rivers?”

  I turned and saw a woman with brown hair and thin features, dressed in a smart navy blue business suit. “It’s Cooper,” I said. Her brow furrowed. “I mean, I am Mrs. Rivers, but my professional name is Cooper. Abby Cooper.”

  She offered me a slight nod and I realized I hadn’t even said hello to her. “Sorry. I’ve been struggling with the decision to take my husband’s last name or keep my own, and I think I’m finally settling on leaving it alone.” Her brow furrowed even more and I added, “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

  “You’re fine,” she assured me, and pointed me forward through the lobby. We began to walk and she said, “I’m Special Agent Hart. I’ve heard a great deal about your fortune-telling abilities, Ms. Cooper, and I have to confess I’m pretty skeptical about what you claim to be able to do, or how you might be able to help us.”

  “Did they tell you about the levitating?” I asked.

  I saw her gaze flicker sideways. I kept my expression neutral. “Levitating?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. On the night of the full moon, I levitate and my head spins around a hundred eighty degrees and I spit fire. It’s wicked cool.”

  Her finger came up to press against her mouth and stop the laugh that I knew she was close to giving in to. “Lucky for us, then, that there’s no full moon for the next three weeks.”

  “Bummer,” I said. “I always feel it’s important to give a lecture and a show at these things. Maybe next time.”

  “I’m assuming you encounter a lot of skeptics,” she said, slightly chagrined, as we stepped onto an elevator.

  I widened my eyes. “Gee, what gave it away?”

  “Okay, okay, maybe I deserved that. How about if I promise to keep my skepticism to myself while you give your little demo?”

  I shook my head. We were the only two people on the elevator and Agent Hart had just confirmed what a total pain in my ass this was going to be. “How do you like the new car?” I asked her.

  Again, she looked sharply at me. “What?”

  “Your new car. It’s silver, right? You also have a black car, but it’s much bigger, like SUV size. I’m surprised you’ll be keeping it, because I only see you driving the new silver car. And I can’t say that I blame you. It’s fast, cute, and sporty. There’s also something luxurious about it too. Maybe you opted for the leather seats, or got the navigation package—something made it a little bit extra special.”

  It was her turn to widen her eyes.

  Now that I had her attention, I kept going. “The new car heralded in a celebration. Not a birthday per se, but a rebirth of some kind. Professionally, you’ve done very well over the last twelve months, but personally you’ve had a hard year. A relationship ended, but you were happy—or maybe I should say relieved—that it did. Still, it dragged out for some reason. I see legal docs, so I’m assuming it was a divorce. The car was to celebrate being not just free of a relationship that’d soured, but being free of the legal entanglements that followed.”

  Hart’s jaw dropped, and at that moment there was a ping to let us know we’d arrived on our floor. The elevator doors opened and I flashed her a slightly evil grin before practically prancing out of the elevator. Booyah, bitch, I thought.

  And then I remembered Brice’s warning to play nicey-nice with the kiddies in L.A. If his job hadn’t been on the line, I would’ve grabbed my bag and gotten back on the plane for Austin, but I believed him when he said there was trouble brewing for our division and I needed to bring home a win. So I reined it in. Just an eensy, weensy bit.

  “Nice,” I said, indicating the impressive open floor we’d landed on when Agent Hart had recovered herself enough to follow me out of the elevator.

  She was still staring at me in amazement, but at least she wasn’t all slack-jawed. “I . . . uh . . . we . . . ,” she said, eventually managing to motion with her hand in the direction we needed to go.

  We walked side by side in silence, and it was hard but I managed to keep the smug smile off my lips all the way down the corridor. It probably helped that as we walked past there were nudges and whispers from the men and women standing about. People had turned out for my appearance, it seemed. Awesome.

  At the end of the corridor, Agent Hart motioned to a closed door and moved ahead of me to open it. “In here, Ms. Cooper.”

  “Thanks,” I said, passing by her into a conference room with a large mahogany table and about a dozen of those weird-looking ergonomic chairs.

  I moved to the far end of the table and pulled out a chair before setting down my purse and taking a seat. When I looked up, I saw that Agent Hart was standing there with a puzzled expression on her face. “Are other people joining us?” I asked.

  Hart pulled a little on her left ring finger—which was bare of any ring. “Yes,” she said, but it was clear she wanted to say something more. “It’s just . . . I paid cash for the car. And I bought it at one of our FBI auctions. It’s not on my credit report or any public record. I haven’t even registered it yet.”

  I stared at her dully. “Your point being that even if I had researched the financial and public records of every single agent in this office—which, if I actually had, would’ve landed my ass in serious hot water—I couldn’t have known about the car, right? I mean, even besides the fact that I just found out about this assignment this morning, and between hearing about the assignment and getting on a plane, I obviously had no time or even access to a database that would’ve shown me exactly who was employed here—not to mention the time to memorize enough details to toss out a few very specific and accurate facts about you, individually, Agent Hart, upon meeting you for the first time, without knowing that it was you who would be greeting me. Is that about the gist of what you’re thinking right now?”

  Her face flushed and she bit her lip. “I seem to have severely underestimated you, Ms. Cooper.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You’re definitely not alone, and after you, I’ll be dismissed just as easily by every person in this office. So how about you bring in the firing squad and we get this dog and pony show on?” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together for emphasis, and Agent Hart dipped her chin and scooted back out of the room, probably to gather the other pitchfork-wielding villagers.

  While I waited, my phone beeped. It was Candice.

  How’s it going?

  I sighed. Exactly like we expected.

  So, they’re being complete douchewaddles. . . .

  “Douchewaddle”? That’s new.

  I’m three drinks in. You get what you get.

  Got it. Yes, they’re being total DWs.

  Need a Huckleberry?

  Not yet, but how about you lay off the booze and sober up in case I need one later?

  Roger that. Hang in there, Sundance.

 
I put my cell away but not the smile that hearing from her had brought on. Candice had this way of making me feel smarter, stronger, and more confident than I usually could feel on my own. Maybe it was because she was so smart, strong, and confident that some of those qualities rubbed off on me. And I had no doubt that she was in fact totally sober. The “douchewaddle” and three-drinks-in thing was just an effort to get me to laugh and chill out in an otherwise stressful situation. God love her, it’d worked.

  By the time the door opened and a line of men in crisp, starched dress shirts, ties, and slacks all marched in, I was fairly relaxed. Still, I kept my expression neutral lest the smirk I wanted to adopt get us off to a bad start.

  The first man through the door came around to the other side of the table directly across from me and stuck out his hand. “Ms. Cooper, I’m Special Agent in Charge Manny Rivera.”

  I stood and shook his hand, adding a nod for good measure. “A pleasure, sir,” I said. (I figured it didn’t hurt to be polite.)

  Pointing down the row of men as they came in to pull out chairs from around the table, he said, “These are special agents Kim, Perez, Williams, Robinson, and Simmons.”

  I nodded to each of them and I noticed that all the agents had carried in one thin folder apiece, which they set on the table in front of them before taking their seats. Just as I’d settled back into my chair, Agent Hart came back into the room and looked around the table. I’d noticed that the men had all taken up chairs opposite me, gathering around their leader, SAIC Rivera. The message was easy to see. It was them against me.

  There was one last seat at the end of the table next to Agent Simmons for Agent Hart to take, but she surprised me—and it seemed her peers—when she came to my side of the table and pulled out the chair just one down from mine. Hmm . . . maybe I’d underestimated her too.

  I dipped my chin in thanks at her, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead she rested her hands on the conference table and looked expectantly to Rivera.