“He practically dared me to put you to the test,” he continued.
When he didn’t say anything after that, I said, “And?”
“And that display in here was, at the very least, impressive.”
I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms, then looked around the room. No obvious sign of a camera, so I tilted my chin and eyed the corners. The cameras were small, hardly noticeable, and tucked into all four corners. I had no doubt that there were hidden microphones about the room too. “Thanks,” I said before resting my elbows on the table and lacing my fingers together. “Now what?”
Before Whitacre could answer me, we heard a buzz and he looked down at his belt. Lifting his cell phone, Whitacre answered the phone and said, “Yes?” There was a long pause, during which the director smiled again, adding a small shake to his head, and he finally said, “Very good, Hector. That’s excellent news.” He then hung up the phone and said, “You were right about Chelsea Brown. She’s pregnant.”
That ignited a little fire in my belly again. “You need to talk to Perez,” I told him. “Chelsea Brown has done nothing wrong. I don’t even think she’s connected to anyone who’s committed a crime. She seems totally clean and all her associates seem . . .” My voice trailed off as I expanded my intuitive view of Chelsea. I saw a badge and a wedding ring. “Crap,” I said with a shake of my own head when the obvious hit me. “I missed that one. She’s married to Perez.”
Whitacre tapped the table. “Yes,” he said, clearly amused. “And Agent Perez had no idea of the surprise waiting for him when he got home tonight. He told me that Chelsea had planned to tell him over dinner.”
“Well, I’m only sorry that I ruined her surprise. I’m not sorry about calling Perez out on his fabricated file. I mean seriously, sir, I’m used to being tested, but if someone like Director Gaston wants to vouch for me, don’t you think that’s worth at least a little courtesy at our first meet and greet?”
Whitacre appeared to consider that. For a long time. Finally, he held up his hands in apology and said, “You’re right. I know and respect the hell out of Bill. Which is why his championing of you has seemed so out of character. He’s far too smart to be taken in by a charlatan. At least, that’s what we all thought until conversations of you came up. But he’s sworn all along that the reason his team in Austin closes so many cold cases is because of your influence. And the numbers have been consistent for the past two years now, ever since that office opened. The stats are impressive to say the least, and Bill’s peers and superiors have all been asking how he’s doing it. He’s never tried to hide the fact that he employs a psychic. Learning that you’re also married to one of his top field agents made us even more curious, and I was the one to volunteer for a demonstration.”
That wasn’t quite the apology I was looking for, but maybe I’d have to pick my battles while I was on loan. “Okay,” I said. “So, assuming I’ve passed the test, how about you let me look at a real case or two? You know, so that I can tell Harrison that I played nicey-nice with the other agents.”
Whitacre stood up. “Agent Hart already brought you one of those, Ms. Cooper. I don’t know what you said to her on the way up here, but whatever it was convinced her not to use the dummy folder I’d had her prepare for your audition. As for the other cases I’d like you to look at, I think we can start on those tomorrow. I’ll need to speak to the other agents privately now. You know, to settle a few ruffled feathers.”
I understood he was specifically referring to Agent Robinson, but maybe I’d ruffled a few other feathers too. I’m really good at that, actually. I’ve got “make ’em mad” skills, I tell ya.
Getting to my feet, I said, “Sounds good. What time would you like me to come back in the morning, Director?”
“Nine a.m.,” he said, moving ahead of me to open the door for us. As I passed through the doorway, he added, “I hope you won’t mind working late this week, Ms. Cooper. I have a feeling we’ll be running quite a few cases by you.”
Freaking perfect. There went much of my free time. “Not at all, Director. See you in the morning.”
With that, I left him and, once at the elevator, I dialed Candice. “Sundance,” she said smoothly. “How goes it?”
“Great!” I lied. “We got along so well they’ve asked me out for drinks and nachos.”
Candice laughed. She knew when I was kidding. “It went that well, huh?”
“You seem surprised.”
“Who could possibly resist your charms?”
“Riiiiight? Anyway, I don’t think I’m gonna go. You know how these L.A. people can be.” The woman in business attire next to me in the elevator offered me a sideways glare. I smiled sweetly and added, “Yep. I’m just making new friends everywhere I go!”
“How about if I take you out for drinks and nachos and you can tell me all about it?” Candice asked.
I gave in to a sigh of relief. “There’s a reason you’re my best friend. See you in half an hour?”
“Deal.”
Chapter Three
• • •
Candice had done her homework, and by homework, I mean she’d scoured Yelp for the best nachos in all of L.A. and found the place to eat them. The restaurant was called Tinga—a relatively small eatery with tons of character, bright colors, funky lighting, and some seriously fine nachos.
Over a plate of said seriously fine, I told Candice all about the meet and greet at the L.A. office, emphasizing the many ways I felt I’d been mistreated and disrespected. At the end, she wadded up her napkin and tossed it on the table. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re so worked up. You knew they were probably gonna try to trip you up, right?”
“Of course I knew. But that doesn’t mean that they had to treat me like I was a joke from the get-go, does it, Candice? In the end it’s a choice to either treat me like a human being with some pretty great credentials and offer me a little respect for our first introduction or to be total douchewaddles, as you so elegantly put it. And I wasn’t naive about how this was going to go. Of course I was expecting them to bring a healthy dose of skepticism, but not all the judgmental condescending bullshit, which they didn’t even try to hide, I might add. I mean, how about you be polite, courteous, professional, and let me look at an actual active case file before you start deciding what I’m all about? Coming into that meeting all assholes a-blazing put me immediately on the defensive.”
“Oh, I think you were already on the defensive.”
I frowned at her but had to consider that. “You may have a point. But they still didn’t have to be so shitty about it.”
“Of course they did,” she countered. “Abs, this is L.A. There’s a psychic on every street corner and most of them suck. You know that.”
“Yeah, but I don’t, Candice!” I snapped. “And it’s not just my word they had to take into account. It’s the entire Austin bureau and Director Gaston!”
Candice let me verbally thrash around in frustration for a bit longer before she looked at me sadly and said, “Abby, no one wants everyone to accept you more than the people who know you and love you, but the world isn’t ready for someone like you. You’re asking not just this person or that person to change their approach to you, but the entire planet to come at you differently. What you don’t get is that you are different from most everyone you meet, and that’s why they’re wary when you first tell them you’re psychic. They don’t know anything about what that actually means or if you’re perhaps certifiably crazy. And while I can’t imagine what it’d be like to exist in a place where I’m constantly judged, underestimated, and maligned, I think that this frustration you have over wanting the whole world to approach you differently could eat you up pretty good if you let it.”
My defenses were still up. “So I should just let them treat me that way? I should just accept it and not allow it to affect me?!”
�
�Yes,” she said.
My jaw dropped and I stared at her in stunned silence.
Candice reached forward and put a hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “Sundance,” she began, “whatever opinions, thoughts, or preconceived notions other people have of you, they’re other people’s stuff. You don’t own any of that. You only own your stuff. It’s not up to you to fix, resolve, or change other people’s minds or even prove to them that you’re the real deal. It’s only up to you to be you. And you are the best you that I know, and I’m damn proud to be your friend.”
I looked down at Candice’s hand on my arm. “It’s just so hard to walk into all that doubt, Candice. It was so hostile in there.”
She squeezed her grip a little to reassure me. “I totally get it. But you know you don’t have to mirror that attitude, right? I mean, wouldn’t it be better to be your own dazzling portrait rather than someone else’s reflection, Abby?”
She paused for effect and I had to admit that her analogy struck a deep chord with me. I wanted to respond to that, but Candice wasn’t quite finished doling out the wisdom, and she continued by saying, “If you can simply allow everyone else to think or feel about you how they will, it will free you up completely to just be you and not the mirror image of the person you’re busy sniping back at. And, just so you know, girl, you’re not so bad to hang out with when you’re not in the mood to rip someone’s head off their shoulders.”
I offered her a crooked smile. “I can be delightful. . . .”
“Yes. Yes, you can. You can also be a total pain in the ass. The choice to be one or the other is completely up to you. What you need to understand is that it costs you less overall to remain unfazed by whatever attitude someone else wants to throw at you while you’re simply being you.”
I heard everything that Candice was saying and I grudgingly had to admit that she made a whole lotta sense. I was super thin-skinned. I got that from being told I was less than acceptable and totally unwanted by parents who never should’ve had children. The adult me (over)reacted to nearly every perceived slight because I was always walking around on the defensive. I found plenty of people willing to slight me, too, and I wondered if maybe I’d brought a lot of that on myself.
Mentally I went back over the meeting at the L.A. bureau, and I realized that if I hadn’t actually called the agents out on their bullshit, perhaps I could’ve ingratiated myself with them by simply giving them my feedback without all the verbal finger-pointing and crying foul.
“You’re right,” I said at last. “I mean, I hate to admit it, but you really are right.”
Candice beamed. “I never get tired of hearing that.”
“So, what do you think I should do to repair things?” I asked her, realizing I had two weeks ahead of me that were already off to a bad start.
“That’s the best part. You don’t have to do much of anything other than be yourself.”
“Really?” I said. “You don’t think I should try to mend fences or apologize or anything?”
“Nope. What’s done is done. Plus, these guys don’t need to hear an apology, which I don’t really think you owe them anyway. In fairness to you—they did start it. But that only means that it’ll be easier for you to walk in there, head held high, and get to work doing what you do. Everyone who works with you eventually comes around, Sundance. Just focus on being the amazing psychic you are, and the rest will follow.”
“You make it sound easy,” I said.
“It’s as easy as focusing on what’s important. The cases are the thing you came here to work on, so get to work on them.”
“I’m also supposed to teach these agents about harnessing their own intuitive gifts to make them better investigators,” I reminded her.
“You can work on that next week,” Candice said easily. “This week, it’s all about the caseload.”
* * *
Most of that night, I thought about everything that Candice had said to me. No surprise, I didn’t sleep well. Her words about being my own portrait instead of somebody else’s reflection kept reverberating through my mind. I’ve been picked on and bullied a lot in my life, and when faced with a new, possibly hostile situation, I tend to shoot first and ask questions and bury the dead bodies later.
What Candice had so kindly pointed out was that not every new encounter with disbelieving jerkholes had to be the O.K. Corral. I could meet fire with apathy. After a while and some practice, I might even be able to meet it with compassion, understanding, and empathy.
So, the next morning when I again arrived at the bureau and was met by Agent Hart, I was all smiles and relaxed attitude. “Good morning, Agent Hart,” I said. “How’re you?”
“I’m very well, Ms. Cooper, thank you for asking,” she said warmly while motioning toward the elevators. “And thank you also for your insights yesterday. I did some preliminary checking and discovered that Grecco offers some of his wealthier clients a bottle of rare wine as a thank-you for their purchase. A few of those clients he’s offered to sell even rarer vintages to.”
There was a slight gleam in Hart’s eye when she revealed that to me, and I suddenly put together why. “Let me guess,” I said. “Grecco doesn’t have a license to sell liquor.”
She winked at me. “Bingo.”
“So you can obtain a warrant on that alone and dig into his records and the wine he sells.”
“Yes,” she said, that gleam in her eye brightening even more. “I’m going to arrest him later this morning after the judge signs the warrant. The local authorities will be working jointly with us on this, and we’ll search his home and gallery thoroughly for evidence of more crimes.”
“He’s tricky about the wine,” I said as my radar pinged. “He keeps it belowground.”
“I’ve learned that the house he owns has a wine cellar.”
“Those are rare in California, right?”
“Generally,” Hart said, pushing the button for the elevator. “The hardest part may be finding the wine cellar. We have only a suggestion from the archives that the old home, once owned by Errol Flynn, has a hidden wine cellar.”
“Ah,” I said, stepping onto the elevator when the doors opened. “Well, good luck with that.”
Hart stood next to me and eyed me sideways. “I was thinking . . . ,” she said.
I chuckled. “You want me to come with you to help you find it.”
“The director said it would be fine to take you if you’d agree to go.”
“I’m game,” I said, happy to have at least one ally in the office.
“Perfect,” Hart said. “Oh, and Rivera wanted a moment of your time. You’re set to meet with him first.”
“Not Whitacre?” I asked.
“No, he’s headed to Arizona this morning. One of his SAICs had a heart attack last night and Whitacre went to see about her and assess the situation.”
My radar pinged again and I frowned. “Oh,” I said.
“What?”
“I don’t think she’ll pull through. Her situation looks very grave.”
Hart stared at me in shock. “Sara’s going to die?”
“You know her personally?”
“I do, but not well,” she said, still looking stunned. “We met a decade ago at a conference where she gave a speech about the difficulties of being a female agent at the bureau. The ratio back then was eight to one. Today it’s better, about six to one, but still not great. Anyway, I approached Sara—Agent Barlow—after her speech, and we struck up a conversation and even had dinner together at the end of the conference. We kept in touch here and there. I sent her congratulations on her post as the SAIC in Phoenix; she sent me one when I received a commendation. I’d call us friendly acquaintances at best, but I’ve always admired her. I can’t believe she won’t recover. She’s still relatively young.”
I tapped my chest. “Her heart hasn�
�t been well for a while,” I said. “The stress of the job and genetics feel like they finally caught up to her.”
Agent Hart dropped her gaze to the floor, and I felt bad that I’d sprung the dismal prediction on her.
A moment later the doors opened and, before we got out, I placed a hand on her arm and said, “I’m really sorry. If it helps, I don’t think she’s even aware anymore. She feels very distant from her body right now.”
Agent Hart nodded and we stepped out. We walked in silence along the same route we’d taken the day before, but as we were approaching the conference room, Agent Kim came up to us, wiggling his phone. “The director sent an update on Barlow’s condition,” he said. “Sorry, Kelsey, it doesn’t look good.”
“Thanks, Lee,” she said. “I already heard it was bad.” For emphasis, Hart looked at me.
Kim seemed to register that I’d been the one to tell Hart about Barlow, because his mouth formed an O and then he backed carefully away, as if he didn’t want to catch my cooties.
I felt a flame of anger ignite in my chest, but Candice’s sage words from the night before came back to me. In my mind’s eye I saw a painting of myself, wearing a pleasant expression, set next to a mirror, which reflected a fearsome creature similar to an Orc from The Lord of the Rings. Just like that, I felt the fire die away and I said, “Should we head to the conference room?”
Agent Hart nodded absently. I could tell her mind was still on the special agent in charge in Phoenix. She didn’t say anything further about it, however; instead she led me to the conference room, where I saw that Rivera was already seated and waiting for me. He looked up from his laptop as we entered. “Your warrant just came in, Hart. Gather your team and let me know when you’re ready to go.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She was kind enough to nod to me before she turned and left the room.
Rivera made a motion to the chair I’d occupied the day before and I headed for it. As I took my seat, I concentrated on keeping myself calm and unruffled by remembering the image of the portrait and the mirror in my mind’s eye. When I looked up at Rivera, I thought the technique was working because he was eyeing me curiously and said, “You good, Cooper?”
A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery) Page 5
