“Oh, shit,” said the man who rarely cursed.
“I think we can rule out the structure as the target. I think we can let Garman off the hook. There’s a specific look to his victims: dark hair cut short, thin face. He’s chosen death by fire-”
“Which is ridiculous,” Boldt interjected. “There are a dozen easier ways to kill someone.”
“Not ridiculous,” she corrected, “symbolic. The fire holds some kind of symbolism for him, or he wouldn’t go to all that trouble. Right? It’s important to him that they burn. Why? Because of the image of Hell? Because his mother intentionally burned him as a child? Because she’s unclean and he’s attempting to purify her?”
“You’re giving me the creeps here,” Boldt said, crossing his arms as if cold.
“I’m giving you motives, the psychological side of what fire may mean to him: religion, revenge, purification. They’re all relevant here.”
“Some guy tapping brunettes because he’s screwed up about his mother?”
“Or a girlfriend, or a teacher, or a baby-sitter, or a neighbor. He tries to have sex with a woman and he can’t perform; she laughs at him, teases him. I’m telling you, Lou-and I know you don’t want to hear this-sex and rejection probably play a part in this. His mother catches him playing with himself and takes an iron to him-”
“Enough.”
“We see that kind of thing,” she pressed.
“I don’t need this.”
“You do if you’re going to catch him,” she cautioned. “You have a premeditated killer burning down structures in a way that is confounding the specialists. He’s confident enough to send poems and drawings in advance of the kills. He has a specific look to his victims. He’s getting into their homes somehow and rigging their houses to blow so that they don’t have time to get out. You better know what makes him tick, or you’re operating on blind luck. The only way you’ll catch him is to run him down in a supermarket parking lot.”
“We isolate his fuel and we trace it back to a supplier. That’s how it’s done with arson,” he informed her.
“That’s fine for some guy torching warehouses for the insurance, but that’s not what we’ve got.”
“In part it is.”
“In part, yes. But the other part is your turf; he has victims. Listen to the victims, Lou. It’s what you’re so good at.”
“There’s nothing left here,” he gasped. “As sick as this sounds, I deal in bodies, in crime scenes. These fires steal both. It takes me out of my game plan.”
“Forget the fire,” she advised.
“What?”
“Leave the fire to Bahan and Fidler, to the Marshal Fives. You take the victims and whatever evidence you can dig up. Divide and conquer.”
“Is this what you called me for?” he asked angrily. “You want to tell me how to conduct the investigation? Doesn’t that strike you as just a little bit arrogant?”
She felt herself blush. They fought like this, but only on rare occasions. She said, clinically and pointedly, “I wanted to forewarn you that I intend to speak with Shoswitz. I wanted to tell you that I made an appointment with Emily Richland, and to check if you had any direct question you wanted asked of her.”
“Emily Richland,” Boldt muttered.
“I spoke to her by phone. She mentioned a man with a burned hand.” That caught his attention. “Possible military service with a badly deformed hand. A blue pickup truck.” She could feel his resistance. She snapped sarcastically, “Why don’t you like it? Because she actually helped us solve a case once?”
Emily Richland, who ran a ten-dollar-a-throw tarot card operation on the other side of Pill Hill, had helped lead police to the location of a kidnap suspect. At her request, the police had withheld her involvement from the press, which impressed Daphne because she figured such a stunt-if it could be called that-was done in part for the notoriety, publicity, and legitimacy it afforded her. At the time, Daphne had been recovering from injuries sustained in another case involving an illicit organ donor ring and had missed the kidnapping. She had never had personal contact with Emily Richland.
“You’re saying that because it’s Richland we should listen?” he asked.
“Is that so wrong? Test the source? What if she’s a part of it? I’m not saying she’s psychic, I’m saying we listen. A burned hand? Come on!”
“What of the other calls, the other self-proclaimed psychics? You going to interview them as well?”
“I might. Emily Richland proved valuable once before; that’s all I’m saying.” She caught herself huffing from anger. “Your call, Sergeant.”
Boldt conceded. “We investigate every lead.” He sat back. “You’re absolutely right. Maybe she has something.”
“Try to think of her as a snitch, not a psychic,” she suggested.
“She has visions?”
“Don’t look at it that way. Define it in terms that are acceptable to you.”
“A snitch,” he said, testing it.
“Leave it to me,” she recommended.
Lou Boldt nodded. “Good idea,” he said.
Emily Richland did not answer her phone, but the recorded message said she was open for readings. Daphne tried again the following day, at ten in the morning. Again the machine answered. That second time, she wrote down the address given in the recording. She rode the elevator down to Homicide and marched up to Boldt’s cubicle, aware of the mountain she was attempting to climb.
She said, “How much did we pay Richland last time?”
Boldt’s khakis were clean, she noted. His shirt was fresh and his shoes polished.
“Two, two-fifty I think it was.”
“I need authorization to offer her that same amount.”
Boldt appeared paralyzed. “You’re going out there,” he stated.
“Yes, I am. And if I have to pay her, I will.”
“Shoswitz will blow a gasket.”
“I’m not asking Shoswitz, I’m asking you.”
“You know what they say around the bull pen?” he inquired rhetorically, not allowing her to answer, even had she had a comeback, which she did not. “That I can’t refuse you anything.”
“Oh, but you do. They don’t know the details.”
“List her as a snitch in the requisition,” he instructed. It was a small compromise, easy for her to live with. It was as good as an approval. She had the finances necessary to pay Emily Richland. She felt ecstatic.
“And don’t look so smug,” he added.
“Is that an order?” she asked, directly reminding Boldt that she outranked him.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Boldt quipped.
“Oh, I am. I definitely am.”
18
Daphne knocked loudly on the door to the purple house. Hearing just how loudly and impatiently she knocked, she questioned whether or not she had the open mind necessary for the ruse she intended. A majority of psychics were nothing more than clever con artists. Dial a 900 number, and through the miracle of caller ID and on-line computerized credit information, the so-called psychic on the other end knew more about you-income, marital status, spending habits, the car you drove, the house you owned, the catalogs you shopped-than could possibly be used in a single session. Though she was loath to admit it to Boldt, she didn’t trust any of them, not even Emily Richland. There was no telling what connection Emily might have to the arsons. She lived in a low-rent neighborhood and made her living telling lies. She would have to prove herself one hell of a mind reader to convince Daphne otherwise.
Daphne’s mission was multilayered: to reverse roles, tell lies of her own, and subtly interview Emily Richland in an effort to test the woman’s authenticity; to attempt to trap the woman into admitting some connection-professional or personal-with the arsons or the arsonist; to offer to pay the woman for information, but only as a last resort.
The door opened.
The woman’s long dark hair was pulled back, stretching the skin of a freckl
ed face that took ten or more years off her forty. Her eyes were a haunting blue under too much mascara. She wore a thrift-store black velvet gown that emphasized her breasts even though the rest of the dress appeared a size too large, and was cinched tightly around her narrow waist by a blue-and-white beaded Indian belt. A string of dime store pearls hung around her neck, and a pair of earrings featured black-and-white photographs of Elvis. Her smile was radiant and yet mysterious-surprisingly natural; her eyes, probing and curious.
“Welcome.”
“Do you have time?” Daphne feigned embarrassment, awkwardness.
“Please,” Emily said, gesturing inside. She wore peach nail polish with silver-blue glitter. She was wearing ballerina slippers with black ribbon bows and worn toes, as if she had been on point. “I’m Emily.” She made no more small talk. She led Daphne to an upholstered chair with a green chenille slipcover that faced a small unadorned table with a pack of thumb-worn tarot cards waiting in one corner and a giant stump of a candle that might take years to burn itself out. There were nudes painted on the wall.
Daphne saw the woman’s hand gently brush the edge of the table as she took her seat. It was a clever, practiced move. The lights dimmed and established themselves at the level of the candle that the woman lit next, using a yellow Bic lighter. The room then smelled faintly of incense, reminding Daphne of her radical years at college.
“You have a question that needs answering,” the woman stated. She studied her. “You’re having trouble with a man.”
Daphne felt her heart in her throat all of a sudden. How on earth could she know about the problems with Owen? Then she realized that on entering the neighborhood she had spun her engagement ring around so that Owen’s absurdly sized engagement diamond was hidden under her finger, not showing on top. The good ones can read a subtle change in skin tone, voice inflection, body language, she reminded herself. Daphne had studied paranormal phenomena in her undergraduate years. For any psychologist with an open mind, it was a fascinating area.
She felt her face flush, at which point there was no sense dodging the question. “Yes, a little bit of trouble,” she admitted, “but that’s not why I’ve come.”
“Something to do with work,” Emily said, eyes searching Daphne’s left to right, left to right. Slightly hypnotic. “You’re a doctor,” the woman speculated, then shook her head no. “Something close, but that’s not it. A paramedic maybe … no … not a nurse. Something medical. Am I close?”
Daphne shifted uncomfortably in the chair, then chastised herself for giving herself away so easily. Concentrate! she demanded of herself. The woman was good. Better than expected. She worked fast. Calm voice. Penetrating eyes. She missed nothing. She was staring at Daphne’s neck, probably counting my pulse, the policewoman thought. Or curious about the long scar there. Focus!
“My fiance’s a doctor”-Daphne lied convincingly-“of economics, not medicine. Can’t put a Band-Aid on his own finger,” she said, amused. “But he’s rich as Croesus,” she included, completing the picture. “But no, it’s not about work, not about him.” She prepared her fiction carefully. “I came to you because of a dream I had. Have you ever dealt with a person’s dreams?” She knew the weight psychics put in such things.
“Dreams can be windows, my dear. Into the past, the future. Do you want to tell me about the dream, or should I tell you a little about you first? You’re not a believer, are you. It’s all right, you know. I mean, not trusting in the powers. They aren’t my powers, you understand. Not mine at all. It’s important to me that you understand. I’m not channeling, I don’t mean that. I’m not a channeler, not a conduit. But I do see: the past, the future. I see wonderful things; I see terrifying things. I can’t help what I see, so I may not please you with what I tell you, but I’ll tell you what I see.” She spoke quickly but without a sense of urgency, so it came off as a smooth monologue that one wouldn’t want to interrupt. Her voice was musical and lilting, her eyes calming and warm. “You’re someone who’s well prepared. You think out potential problems in advance. You’re neat. You keep a clean house and you pride yourself on the little details. You’re angry at your fiance, but it’s not about another woman-a young girl, perhaps.”
Daphne felt a chill all the way to her toes. As quickly as Emily talked, Daphne attempted to reconstruct how she might arrive at such things. Some of it might be explained by Daphne’s appearance, her choice of dress, her use of makeup, but how could she know about Owen’s daughter Corky? How could that be explained? She couldn’t allow herself to be led; she needed to take control. “It’s my dream I’m concerned with,” Daphne said definitely, in a dry, flat tone.
“No, my dear. I don’t think we can deal with the dream until I’ve convinced you, and I haven’t convinced you, have I? Not yet. Not entirely. I’m sorry. It’s a two-way street, and I feel you tensing, and I’m afraid I haven’t got much else to offer. If you like-no charge. You can go. We can try again another time or not, as you like.”
One hell of an effective sales tool, Daphne thought. Offer the door for free, or more to stay. Amazingly, Daphne found herself more convinced of this woman’s authenticity than she was willing to admit. “No,” she said, “I’d like to stay.”
A quiet descended over them as the psychic appraised her, only the light New Age music playing. The other woman’s brow knitted and she whispered, “There’s another man, isn’t there?”
Daphne felt her eyes pool with tears, her gut wrench. This was too much! “This is not about me,” she blurted out, feeling violated and invaded, taken advantage of. The only image before her was the face of Lou Boldt. She felt saddened to her bones. She felt exhausted. Finished. She wanted no more of any of this-no psychic, no Owen, no police department.
“Of course it’s about you,” Emily said. “It’s in the past now, isn’t it? In the past, but always in the present.”
“I will not talk about this!”
“No,” Emily said. “There’s no reason to talk about it, is there? What’s in the past is better left there.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m looking at you, yes.” She hesitated and then said, “I think we can talk about that dream now. What do you think?”
A guess, Daphne decided. The woman had made a lucky guess, had scored a bull’s-eye, and had pursued it until to try for anything more risked the guess revealing itself as such. She knew nothing of it. She was no mind reader. Daphne had not been thinking about Lou. Or maybe she had been; she wasn’t sure. She felt confused and angry. Confusion was a foreign country to her; she didn’t speak the language or know the customs. She returned to her years of reading, of study, of conducting interviews, of forming psychological profiles. She stepped toward its safety as a person lost in the dark will head for even a faint glimmer of light.
Daphne inhaled a long slow breath, collecting herself. She closed her eyes slowly and said dramatically, “In the dream it is always the same: a man … I can’t see his face. He never looks at me, never directly at me. He’s a strong man. Imposing. And I see people burning,” she said, in a hoarse, dry, frightened whisper, knowing without opening her eyes that she had gained control of the other woman. “Houses burning. White-hot flames. Dancing flames. Women burning.” She saved the best for last.“Never his face. Just his …” She squinted tightly and shook her head no. She waited for the other woman.
“What, dear?” Emily asked.
“His hand. A burned hand. Disgusting. Fingers burned …”
Emily gasped audibly.
Daphne opened her eyes, containing her delight. Touche! The psychic paled considerably. Daphne asked, “What is it?” And then, reversing roles completely, she sat up straight and said, “Do you know this man?”
The psychic shook her head no.
“You’ve had the same dream?”
No again. Emily’s eyes remained enlarged. She was preparing some comment to make, preparing to take back control.
Daphne had to speak, t
o maintain her position. “You’ve met him,” Daphne stated plainly. “He came here.” She looked around the room and put onto her face her best mask of terror. She crossed her arms tightly, as if fending off the cold. “He’s been in this room,” she stated, noting with great satisfaction that Emily remained pinned by her comments. “Who is he?” Daphne asked. “Why have I seen him in my dreams?”
She waited, uncrossing her arms and placing her hands on the table before her. She leaned forward. “Who is he that he enters my dreams this way? Is he going to kill me? Is that it? Is it the man burning these houses? Is it the news? Is that all?”
“Who are you?” Emily choked out.
“You’ve seen that hand. I know you’ve seen that hand.”
The other woman’s face took on a look of terror. “You’re a friend of his. His girlfriend? You’re checking up on me?” She allowed it to slip.
“You have seen him!”
“You’re lying to me,” Richland said, her eyes lowered dangerously. “Do not lie to me.”
“The hand,” Daphne repeated. “You’ve seen that hand. I know you have. I saw how you reacted. I can tell you’ve seen that hand. Why? Why have I come here to you?” She tried to sound as emotionally unstable and fearful as possible. “I could have gone to any psychic. Why you?” Feed the ego, she reminded herself, having used this same principle on dozens of suspected felons.
“Because I can help you,” Emily answered, the suspicion in her eyes lessened. “Tell me about the dream.”
Daphne asked, “Am I psychic? Is there a way to stop it, control it? I don’t like these dreams. I don’t want any more of them. Is that how it starts? A dream? Dreaming?”
“We all have the ability to glimpse the future,” the woman answered clearly. “We’ve all done it: thought of an age-old friend whom we haven’t seen in years just moments before the phone rings and it is that friend on the line. Worried for a friend or relative, only to discover something terrible-or even something wonderful-has happened. Although I’ll tell you this,” she said, as an aside. “The dark, the evil, is somehow more powerfully transmitted than the good. It has been said that people close to those who have died have experienced a pain or even fallen to the floor, which, when traced later, can be connected to the exact moment of this other person’s death. Skeptics call this coincidence. I call it the Power. The difference between those people and me-between you and me, my dear-is that I can summon the Power. I can harness it. Connect with it, at my choosing. But at its core, it is no different from your dreams. Yes, I can tell that you’ve connected during those dreams. Something in this man has stirred a place in you. There may be others with this same dream; there may be none. None of that matters. What matters is that you’ve connected. And yes,” she said-answering honestly? Daphne wondered-“so have I. I know the man. I’ve seen him. He has sat in that chair.”
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