“Well,” he began in the slightly awkward silence that followed. “Now that we’re all here, I think we should start by seeing what you’re capable of, Ms. Cooper.”
That’s doubtful, I thought, but held my tongue.
Rivera pushed forward a very thin file toward me. “This is a case that Agent Simmons has been working. We’d like to see what you can tell us about it.”
I stared at the closed folder, trying very hard not to give in to my first impulse to yell “Bullshit!” After counting to ten, I opened the folder and considered the first page. It was a photo of a young man, maybe late teens to early twenties, with ginger hair, a dusting of freckles, and slightly crooked teeth but a smile as wide as Texas. He looked the picture of innocence, appearing happy and like he had his whole future ahead of him with endless possibilities. Nothing about his image spoke to the truth about who he was, however. That I picked up right away as a series of images flashed through my mind.
There was a typed-up bio on the inside of the folder. It stated that the young man’s name was Sean Anderson. He was nineteen. His dad was a locksmith. His mother was a tax accountant. They lived in Van Nuys.
“God, I hate being tested,” I said softly, closing the file to fold my hands over the top of it and stare dully at Rivera.
His brow furrowed slightly. “How do you think you’re being tested?” he asked carefully.
I pushed the file back toward him. “That’s a closed case, sir. And it’s a waste of my time to give you my impressions on a case you’ve already solved. Granted, if any case might’ve tested my abilities, it’d be one where Opie from Mayberry gets turned by Islamic extremists into a homegrown terrorist, but, sadly for you folks, today’s the day I pass with flying colors.” The room had been quiet before I’d spoken, but now there was an extra sense of stillness to it. Most of the people around the table were trying to hide their stunned reactions. Some of them squinted at me and pressed their lips together, while others looked at Rivera as if he would provide an explanation, but he was staring at me as if trying to figure me out. Like I was some kind of puzzle that just needed the corner piece to orient the rest of the picture.
I’ve seen that look a lot in my life. It gets really, really wearisome after a while, because the answer is so simple. . . . I really AM fucking psychic, people. But, whatevs. I’d owe the swear jar a mental quarter later. For now, I had more proving ground to cover. I switched my focus from Rivera to the guy at the end of the table. Snapping my fingers and pointing to him, I said, “Slide your case file over here, Agent . . . ?”
“Kim,” he said with a hint of irritation.
I nodded and motioned impatiently with my hand to have him give me the file. He looked to Rivera—who nodded—before sliding it (with a bit of force) across the table toward me. I slapped it with my hand before it could get by me, then opened it and stared at the photo for like two seconds before closing it firmly. “Dead,” I said of the man pictured inside. Then I pointed at Kim and added, “And you know it. Granted, I don’t think you’ve found your body yet, but you will. It’s belowground, but not buried. Look at a family member, like a brother or a cousin who was like a brother. There was a familial connection between the murderer and the victim, but neither of the two men were saints. Just the opposite. This guy was connected to organized crime out of Russia . . . no . . . maybe Croatia, and the only person he trusted was his brother. Stupid. The brother was Cain to his Abel and wanted to take over the business.” Kim opened his mouth as if to say something, but the needle on my snappish and rude meter was already in the red zone, so I gave his folder a good shove back to him and turned my focus to the remaining agents. “Who wants to go next?” I asked them.
The agent on the left side of Rivera stood and handed his folder to me. There was unspoken challenge in his eyes. I took the folder and opened it. A woman with long ash-blond hair and pretty green eyes stared out at me from the inside cover. The bio said that her name was Chelsea Brown; she was single and living in Inglewood. Her energy was somewhat “loud,” and by that, what I mean is that she had energy that was very easy for me to pick up on and sort through. As I studied the photo and the energy attached to the woman, I got a series of images that caused me to frown. Looking up at the agent, I said, “Agent . . . Uh, sorry, what was your name again?”
“Perez,” he said.
“Yes, Agent Perez, why is this woman being investigated? She’s done nothing wrong.”
His eyes widened and he didn’t even try to cover it up. I realized immediately that he knew she was a law-abiding citizen.
That sparked some anger from me because I could feel that he’d been interacting with her quite a bit. “Listen,” I said, leaning toward him. “You need to back the hell off this woman, Agent Perez. She hasn’t broken a single law and you know it. Now, I can’t understand why you’re investigating her, but I sense your energy all over hers and I don’t like men who stalk women on the pretense that they’re investigating them for some trumped-up charge.”
“I’m not stalking her, Ms. Cooper,” he said.
“Bullshit,” I snapped. “You’re very aware of her daily comings and goings, and I have the feeling you’re not going to back off either. For God’s sake, man, the woman’s pregnant! She’s in a vulnerable situation right now and the last thing she needs is you breathing down her neck!”
Perez looked taken aback—obviously he hadn’t known she was pregnant. Still, he offered up no further information, and that made me even madder. Pointing a finger at him, I said, “I think you should know that after this little party winds up, I intend to place a call to Director Gaston about you and this woman.”
Perez’s eyes widened a little more. He looked to Rivera, who also seemed pretty surprised by my outburst. I pointed my finger next at him and said, “She didn’t do anything wrong, Agent Rivera. She’s broken no laws.”
“Thank you, Ms. Cooper,” was all he said.
I glared hard at him. I could tell he didn’t intend to do anything about it, so I closed the file and made a show of tucking it into my purse. If I had to, I’d drive out to the address listed in the bio and warn the woman myself. I very nearly walked out right then—I mean, I had no intention of being a part of any abuse of power by these L.A. chuckleheads—but Rivera put up his hand in a stopping motion as if he sensed I was ready to bolt and said, “Ms. Cooper, I’ll explain why we needed your feedback on Chelsea Brown later. For now, if you’d please hand over that file and indulge the rest of our agents?”
I tapped a finger on the table while I thought about it. It seemed that Rivera was sincere about talking to me afterward, but if he was going to try to protect Agent Perez, then I didn’t really need to stay.
On the other hand, my intuition was telling me to stick it out. Why, I didn’t know, but every time I don’t listen to my gut, I regret it, so I compromised. I pulled out the file from my purse, opened it to the address listed, and memorized it; then I slid the file back to Perez. “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms to show Rivera that I’d stay, but I wasn’t happy about it. After taking a deep breath to settle myself, I nodded across the table to where the only black agent in the room sat. He had a beautiful face, with sharp, intelligent eyes. He could’ve easily been a model or a movie star, but he’d chosen this for a career, which earned him a teensy ounce of respect from me. Pointing to him, I cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
“Robinson,” he said.
Shifting my hand slightly to point at the folder underneath his right hand, I asked, “May I?”
He pushed the folder forward and I flipped it open to look at the photo and corresponding bio. I took in the image of a Hispanic man in his mid-fifties with a goatee and squinty eyes. “Drugs,” I said when I felt that familiar oily, bitter taste at the back of my mouth. Sometimes, my intuition interprets things through my other senses, and the fingerprint of drugs in the ether always leaves an oily, i
cky taste on the back of my tongue. In my mind’s eye I saw a crown being placed on the man’s head. “He’s a kingpin,” I said. Then I saw a pair of wings and my symbol for Mexico. I closed the file and pushed it back across the table. “You’ve been working this case for a while, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. I could tell my four-word assessment of his case file hadn’t overly impressed him.
“That,” I said, pointing to the folder, “is not a closed case. But it sure as hell should be. You’ll never catch him.” Agent Robinson shifted in his chair and his energy suggested he was totally resisting my message. It didn’t stop me from giving him more of my opinion, of course. “He’s already flown the coop and gone back to Mexico, and no way are you gonna be able to tempt him to come back across the border again.”
Robinson cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips ever so slightly in silent challenge to my statement.
I shrugged. “I know he’s got family here, right? A wife and two girls who’re in their teens, right?”
Robinson’s other eyebrow joined its raised twin, but he didn’t give me a yea or a nay on that.
“You think that this guy is gonna come back over here one more time for them, and I’m here to tell you he’s already abandoned his family. He finds clever ways to send them money, but emotionally, he’s completely divorced himself from his wife and daughters, and soon even the money’s gonna stop. He’ll never set foot on U.S. soil again, and you’re not going to get the Mexican authorities to hand him over either. I think you’ll chase him for a while, though, because you’re just the kind of man who won’t quit until you bring in the bad guy, but it’ll cost you something in the long run. I’m thinking the price you’ll pay is something in the form of a promotion when it comes time for your turn. Your superiors don’t think you know when to give up a dead case and focus on one you can actually resolve.”
I felt a wave of anger emanate off Robinson, but he gave no outward sign of it. Instead his expression became a blank mask and then he did something that even I didn’t expect. He moved his chair back, got up, tucked the chair back into place, and walked calmly out of the room.
No one spoke as he exited. They didn’t need to. We all understood his absolute dismissal of me, and while I pretended not to care, deep down I’ll admit that the insult stung. It was too reminiscent of being summarily dismissed by my parents when I was a child, and it made me question again why I’d even bothered to come out here to do this. I looked at Rivera, who was still staring at the door as if he was thinking of the lecture he’d be giving to Robinson later.
The whole atmosphere in the room was beginning to change too. With Robinson’s departure, there was a palpable hostility circulating, and I suddenly felt very vulnerable and alone.
I figured I’d really blown it until Agent Hart came to my rescue. She slipped her folder toward me and I noticed that it was actually much thicker than any of the other files. “Ms. Cooper, I’d like to get your impressions on this case, please.”
I took the file and opened it and saw that it was set up in the standard format of all the files that came across my desk when I worked cases back in Austin. Encouraged by the familiarity, I read the first few paragraphs of the file brief on the left-hand side of the page.
The case in question had to do with stolen artwork. There was a gallery owner, Mario Grecco, living in the Hollywood Hills, who was being investigated for possibly fencing stolen artwork out of Europe. According to the bit of text I read, the FBI hadn’t found a single solid lead to pin him to the crime. None of his clients would cop to the fact that they’d been approached to purchase the artwork, and it was still a mystery as to who Grecco’s contacts in Europe were. It was estimated that he could be responsible for fencing between ten and one hundred million in stolen artwork.
I looked up from reading the brief and asked, “What’s Grecco’s connection to wine?”
Hart seemed confused by my question, but then she said, “Actually, he collects it. It’s one of his hobbies.”
“He may be a collector, but he’s also a forger,” I said. “I keep seeing wine paired with my symbol for forgery.”
While Hart pondered that, Rivera said, “Why is that relevant, Ms. Cooper?”
“Because you’re not going to nail Grecco by following the stolen-art trail. The clients who buy these works from him know full well they’re buying something stolen. But the clients who purchase a super-pricey bottle of wine from him will roll right over if you can prove to them that the wine isn’t the rare vintage he’s claiming it to be. My gut says that he’s forged labels for wine that he probably picked up in the grocery store, then sold those bottles to at least a few of his stolen-art-buying clients. If you offer them immunity on possession of the stolen artwork, they’ll be willing to testify against him.
“And I know you’re after the bigger fish—the ring of art thieves that’s supplying him with the pieces to fence—but you’re looking in the wrong place. These guys steal from all the countries where they don’t actually reside, which is how they keep such a low profile.”
Hart leaned in toward me; she seemed very interested in what I had to say. “We’ve been looking for them in Milan and Verona because so much of the stolen artwork comes from there.”
“Nope,” I said, closing my eyes to focus on the map that was forming in my mind’s eye. “I’ll go out on a limb here and say that none of the artwork comes from Switzerland, am I right?”
There was a pause; then Hart said, “No. Nothing from Switzerland.”
I opened my eyes and smiled at her. “Everybody trusts the Swiss. Have your contacts work the European trail from the beginning. I’ll bet the first pieces were stolen from countries that surround Switzerland—Austria, Germany, France, and Italy. The trail is also older than anybody realizes. Go back another decade and you’ll start noticing a pattern. I keep seeing a set of skis, so if I were a betting woman, which I am, I’d lay money down that your thieves work at some sort of ski resort, which allows them access to wealthy European clients to target. They’d never hit close to home because that’d be too risky for them, but I’ll bet that every ski season they target a few of these tourists, gather intel on them, and hit their homes a few months later when they can be sure that their vacation to Switzerland won’t seem relevant. If you work this case from both ends, Agent Hart, I’m pretty sure you’ll shut this whole ring down.”
It was her turn to smile at me and just like that, we bonded. “Thank you, Ms. Cooper. That was fairly incredible.”
I chuckled, waving a hand. “Oh, please. This is what I do. I pinpoint directions that’ll lead to results, and when I’m trusted, good things can happen.”
Hart’s gaze shifted slightly to her boss across the table, and a flush touched her cheeks. I had a feeling she’d disobeyed orders by bringing in an actual, bona fide case for me to look at and not some lame photo and bio in a folder. I declined to look at Rivera but turned to one of the last agents I hadn’t yet spoken to. Motioning to the thin file in front of him, I said, “Want me to take a look?”
Before he could answer, the door opened and in stepped a giant of a man. I pegged him to be perhaps a little over six and a half feet tall. He literally ducked to come in the door. His features were square and there was a hardness to him that made me want to back away a little from his presence.
He had large hands to go with his big frame, but he didn’t move like the extra body mass was hard to lug around. In fact, I was surprised to see a bit of grace in his movements as he shut the door and walked to the head of the table. “Agents,” he said to the group still gathered at the table. “I’d like a word with Ms. Cooper, please.”
I recognized the voice as that of Director Whitacre. I hadn’t been prepared for someone so tall and imposing, and it took a minute for me to mentally reconcile his image with that of Director Gaston, who was fairly short as men go, right around five-ei
ght or thereabouts.
Still, there was a little something extra to both men that couldn’t be measured with a yardstick, and that was an essence of authority that permeated the space around them. Gaston had a little extra essence on Whitacre, I noticed, but maybe that was because Gaston was perhaps the more dangerous of the two. I had no doubt that Gaston had used deadly force when he worked for the CIA. I also had no doubt, in fact, that when ordered to, he’d killed quickly, quietly, and most efficiently and he hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep over it.
I liked Gaston. A lot. But I was also a teensy bit terrified of him.
Whitacre scared me only because he could cause damage to my husband’s career and that of my friend if he wanted to. There was reason to be cautious and careful around him, but not in a way that would make me sleep with one eye open.
The agents got up and began to abandon the room. Perez was the second-to-last person through the door, and just as he was about to pass Whitacre, the taller man put a hand on his elbow to stop him for a moment, then bent to whisper something in his ear. Perez nodded, then continued out with Rivera on his heels, finally leaving me alone with Whitacre.
The second the door closed, I began to feel out the director’s energy, which might’ve been an invasion of privacy, but he was the one testing me, so I figured I had the right. “Director,” I said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Whitacre stood above me—an intimidation tactic for sure. I did my best not to look the least bit afraid, and a slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Ms. Cooper,” he said. “Thank you for coming out to L.A. on such short notice.”
“Least I could do to save my job and those of my husband and boss, Director.”
The slight smile got a teensy bit wider. “There’s been a lot of chatter about you,” he said, moving to the chair opposite mine and taking a seat. “Bill Gaston has taken a pretty good ribbing from the rest of us.”
“Not surprising,” I said, because it wasn’t.
A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery) Page 4
