Dead Speak (Cold Case Psychic Book 1)

by Pandora Pine

  “Oh, please. You’re the hero, saving Truman’s life a year ago by taking the bullet meant for him.” Tennyson handed Carson his usual lunch, the number seven special from Lotus Blossom, beef and broccoli with white rice.

  West Side Magick had been left to Carson and his younger brother, Cole, when their mother passed away a little over two years ago. Bertha Craig had been a true talent, with the gift of sight and being able to speak to the those who’d passed on. At the time of her death, neither of her sons had shown any talent whatsoever, but she’d made them promise they’d keep the store open as her legacy.

  A year after her death, Carson had his first psychic vision in which he saw a man being held at gunpoint before being shot and killed. He’d set out to find and save the man in his vision, falling in love with him along the way. Truman, the man in the vision, hadn’t believed Carson until the gunman had shown up at a Christmas party wanting revenge for the job Truman had fired him from weeks earlier. Carson had taken a bullet for his lover, saving Truman’s life and nearly losing his own in the process.

  After Carson had recovered from his gunshot wound and the whirlwind wedding and honeymoon that followed, he’d sought Tennyson out, knowing he needed a mentor and guide to help him understand and harness his new psychic powers which seemed to be growing stronger by the day.

  Up until that point in time, Tennyson had been working out of his apartment on Essex Street, giving private readings to his clients. The situation wasn’t ideal, but he’d made it work for the seven years he’d been living in the Witch City, Salem, Massachusetts.

  He’d grown up in the Midwest, in the tiny town of Union Chapel, Kansas, population 588. Life in Union Chapel revolved around two things: religion and football. Tennyson hadn’t been good at either of them.

  It was football that led him to realize he was gay at the tender age of ten. It had been a confusing day for him when he’d figured out the best part of football was when the bigger boys tackled him; landing on his body and grabbing him in places it wasn’t proper for boys to grab each other, according to his Sunday school teacher, except when he was on the good old gridiron.

  His psychic abilities began to manifest themselves in earnest once he’d hit puberty. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up in the middle of the night to see a stranger sitting on the end of his bed. It was less unusual to hear voices, not his own, in the back of his mind, giving him messages to pass along to people he was standing near at the grocery store.

  Religion didn’t mesh so well with being gay and psychic. At least not the religion preached in the Union Chapel Calvary Baptist Church. Neither psychics nor gays were welcome to worship in their pews. Pastor Greene spoke feverishly about both groups of sinners at least twice a month, making Tennyson feel perpetually guilty and on constantly edge.

  At the beginning of his senior year of high school, unable to keep his secrets another day, he’d confessed both of them to his parents, who’d always assured him he could come to them with anything. As it turned out, their idea of “anything” had been drugs or underage drinking. They could have even dealt with fornication or, God forbid, teenage pregnancy. What neither of his parents had been prepared for was, “I’m gay… and psychic.”

  Because Tennyson had hit his parents with the double-whammy confession he’d never know how they would have reacted to his secrets one at a time. They’d told him since he was still seventeen they were responsible for him until he graduated from high school. After that, he was on his own.

  They donated his college fund, which they’d been diligently saving since he’d been born, to the church. From all outward appearances, the Grimms were a happy family, but from that day forward, Tennyson was no longer their son.

  With no money for college to fall back on, Tennyson saved every dime from his part-time job at the Union Chapel McDonalds for his escape. He knew he’d have to leave his parents’ house the day after his graduation and his two best options were New Orleans or Salem, Massachusetts. Both cities were psychic-friendly and he knew he could establish himself quickly and earn a living.

  The final, deciding factor was the fact that Massachusetts was more gay-friendly than Louisiana. He’d be able to marry the man of his dreams there, should he ever be lucky enough to meet him. So far, that kind of luck hadn’t been on his side.

  “Everyone’s a hero to someone, Ten.” Carson shrugged and dug into his lunch.

  His friend’s voice brought Tennyson back to the present. Thinking about his family back in Union Chapel always did more harm than good and he needed to be sharp for his meeting with Brett McCabe from RSN. “Where do you stand on this whole reality show thing?”

  Carson grinned thoughtfully while he chewed. “I made a pro and con list.” He stood up and pulled a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Of course you did.” Tennyson shook his head. Carson could always be counted on to produce a pro and con list in times of trouble. Not that this decision was trouble, but the stakes were high for everyone involved.

  Not only would this decision affect him, but Carson and his brother Cole as well. Tennyson had been mentoring both of the Craig brothers and all three worked in the West Side Magick shop. Next door to the shop was a bakery owned by Cole’s wife, Cassie, who was also Truman’s best friend and business partner.

  A reality show of any kind was bound to bring an influx of new business to both shops and would affect all five friends. Cassie and Cole were already in a balancing act as it was between their jobs and their one month old daughter, Laurel.

  Carson and Truman’s life was about to get a whole lot busier as well. Their triplets, conceived via in-vitro fertilization, were due at the end of February.

  “Okay, hit me with the top two pros and the top two cons.” Tennyson knew damn well there were more than two of each type on Carson’s list, but if he let his friend ramble on, they’d be here all day and Brett McCabe was due any minute.

  “Top two? Cutting me off at the knees, Ten?” Carson rolled his eyes. “Fine. Con, more business than the three of us can handle. Pro, more business than the three of us can handle.”

  Tennyson had been expecting Carson to say that. He knew that once The Long Island Medium had debuted on TLC, Theresa Caputo’s reading calendar had booked up fast, but the rate she’d been able to charge had shot sky-high. “With that would also come more money.”

  “I had that on my pro list, but you said to only pick two!” Carson’s eyes lit up. “Moving on. Con, notoriety. People beyond Salem, Massachusetts are going to know who we all are and how to find us.”

  “I’d thought of that too.” Tennyson knew the story of Timmy Lanski had gone national. It was the second story on the ABC News last night, behind a suicide bombing in Turkey. That story was going to bring him notice beyond Salem. In the other news stories he’d heard, there had been mention of what had happened with Carson and Truman last year, bringing their names and story back into the public eye.

  There was no doubt in his mind that word of his heroism had made it back to Union Chapel. Although “heroic” wouldn’t be the word the fine citizens of his hometown would use to describe how he’d found the missing boy. They’d say he’d used his “Satan-given” powers to rescue the child and then they’d pray for his doubly doomed soul.

  Tennyson shook his head. “What’s the last pro?” He hoped Carson wasn’t going to say notoriety. The last thing any of them needed was to go Hollywood. Red carpets and star-studded galas definitely weren’t his idea of a good time. Even if it meant he’d get to rub elbows with the likes of Matt Damon and Mark Wahlberg.

  “The people you’d be able to help.” Carson shut his mouth and dug back into his lunch.

  Tennyson burst out laughing. Carson, ever the showman, always knew how to go out with a bang.

  3

  Ronan

  The forty-five minute drive from Dorchester to Salem was surprisingly soothing. Once Ronan was out of the congested traffic of Boston, his GPS g
uided him up Route 1A, which was a coastal road. Sightings of the ocean mixed with snowbound marshland made Ronan wonder why he was so fond of the city in the first place.

  Winding his way up the coast to Salem, he turned onto Route 114 and was greeted by signs and banners welcoming him to the Witch City. Not the biggest student of history, he found it odd that Salem would choose to capitalize on its scarred past by plastering the city with pictures of flying witches on broomsticks.

  The GPS led him past the imposing brick façade of the Salem Witch Museum. If it weren’t for his research last night and the giant sign on the front of the building, he would have thought it was another New England church. According to what he read online, the museum features a life-sized presentation of the witch hunt and subsequent trial based on transcripts recorded in 1692.

  Turning left onto Brown Street, Ronan tried to focus on what it was he wanted to say to Tennyson when he met him. He’d called the shop first thing this morning and spoke to a man named Cole who was more than happy to make an appointment for him to see Ten, as he’d called the psychic, telling him that he was lucky to have gotten in to see him today at all. Apparently appointments were booking fast now that Tennyson was a household name.

  He still couldn’t believe he was doing this, seeking out the advice of a psychic to help with Michael Frye’s case. What frosted his ass more than how low he’d fallen, was the fact that this was Josh’s idea.

  Sleep had been slow in coming last night. Ronan hadn’t been able to get the feel of Josh’s touch out of his head. It had been so long since his ex had touched him like that. Since anyone had touched him like that, really.

  He hadn’t been with anyone at all since his divorce. Ronan knew a lot of guys who went out and fucked anything that moved after a bad breakup, but that wasn’t his style. All he wanted to do was lick his wounds in private.

  Getting divorced was a rite of passage in the BPD. Hell, out of all of the cops in the 48th precinct, only a handful of them were still on their first spouse. One such couple was Tony and Carlie Abruzzi. He’d always thought he and Josh would be on that list too, but that was all water under the bridge now.

  Finding a place to park a few doors down from West Side Magick, Ronan shut off the car and studied the shop. It looked exactly like the images he’d seen on the news. There were a handful of people milling around outside, peering in the windows and snapping pictures with their smartphones, while a few more were checking out West Side Sweets, the bakery next door. He’d read the shop was co-owned by the people who owned the Magick shop.

  Part of him felt like a creeper for having done research on the businesses and their owners last night, but a good detective always went into a situation armed with as much information as possible. Grabbing the accordion file with a copy of the Michael Fry case, he got out of the car and hurried toward the front door, ducking his head into his collar against the biting January wind.

  A chime tinkled over the door as a warm blast of air greeted him when he stepped through the door.

  “Welcome to West Side Magick, I’m Cole Craig.”

  “Hi, Cole. I’m Ronan O’Mara. I have a 1pm meeting with Tennyson.” He held out his hand to shake with the youngish man. He was a bit over six feet tall, but shorter than Ronan by an inch or so and had a weaker grip.

  “Ten is finishing up with his 12:30pm reading. Feel free to browse the shop and I’ll grab you when he’s finished.”

  Ronan nodded and moved off to check out the items the shop offered for sale. In his mind, all of it was complete bullshit. There were crystals to cure anything that ailed you from sexual dysfunction to depression. There were aisles of dream catchers and statues of various gods and goddesses, crystal balls, and decks of tarot cards. He steered clear of the endless types of candles and headed toward the shelves of books.

  Now that he was here in the shop, Ronan could feel his anxiety ratchet up. He tried to practice his deep breathing exercises, but this wasn’t the sheltered confines of his Jupiter, Florida rehab. This was real life. What was left of his career was hanging on his ability to figure out what happened to Michael Frye. Tennyson Grimm could be his last, best chance at finding an answer.

  “I have something that will help you,” a soothing voice said from behind him.

  Ronan startled and turned around to see Tennyson, who he recognized from the news broadcast, standing behind him with a colorful stone sitting in the palm of his left hand. He was just as handsome, if a little shorter, in person. “It’s a rock.”

  “Actually, Charlie Brown,” Tennyson raised an eyebrow at him, “it’s a fluorite crystal.”

  “It’s going to help keep my teeth clean?” Ronan asked, his tone dubious.

  “That’s fluoride.” Tennyson rolled his dark eyes, which looked flustered. “Fluorite neutralizes negativity and absorbs anxiety. I could feel both flowing off of you the second you walked through the front door.”

  “Oh, could you now, Nostradamus?” Ronan’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but he accepted the smooth stone from Tennyson, slipping it into his coat pocket. He could feel his entire body tense as the psychic’s eyes roamed over him. He supposed it was fair though, after all, Ronan had been giving the smaller man the once over himself a few seconds ago. There was something different about the man standing this close to him that hadn’t come through on television, but he’d be damned if he could put his finger on it.

  Tennyson’s lips quirked in an all too brief smile. “For a man who’s desperate for my help on the Michael Frye case, you’re kind of being a dick. Tennyson Grimm at your service.” He held out his hand.

  Ronan gasped and took a step back. How the fuck did Tennyson know all of these things about him? Yes, he was an alleged psychic, but Ronan must be giving off other clues that Tennyson was picking up on. Flim-flam men like him knew how to read body language. Anxiety was an easy one to read. He was dressed in his detective’s clothes, so that was a dead giveaway, but how in fuck did he know about Michael Frye?

  “His name is written on the tab of the accordion folder.” Tennyson pointed with a grin.

  “What?” Ronan looked at the folder under his arm. “Oh…” He shook his head. “Wait! Were you reading my mind?”

  Tennyson sighed, rocking back on his heels. “You’re dressed like a cop. Most men who come to see me are wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and look sad or troubled. You look determined, desperate even. Then there’s the anxiety, which you don’t have to be psychic to read on your face and in your tense body language. Your eyes are darting around like you’re expecting a ghost to jump out at you from around every corner. A ghost or perhaps a colleague from the Boston Police Department, Detective O’Mara?”

  For a minute there, Tennyson almost had him. He’d sounded an awful lot like Benedict Cumberbatch’s version of Sherlock Holmes describing how he knew someone had come in on a 9:30 train from the country, in the rain. “So, you Googled me? I fucking knew it. You really are a fruitcake and a fraud to boot.” Ronan shook his head. “This was a complete waste of my friggen time coming up here from Boston.”

  “I, uh, hate to interrupt your fascinating and rude diatribe, detective,” a sarcastic voice sneered from behind them, “but Brett McCabe is here to discuss the idea of a reality show, Ten.”

  “Thanks, Carson.” Tennyson peered around Ronan’s body to wave at him and the television producer. “Actually, detective, I watch the news. I remember your name from when you were shot in the line of duty last summer, so there wasn’t any need to Google you.”

  Ronan felt like a bit of an asshole, but not much. Tennyson hadn’t done anything yet to prove he was the real deal.

  “Brett, why don’t you give me a few minutes to meet with Detective O’Mara about his missing child case and then we can talk about what you have in mind for me.”

  “Hold on a minute here. How long has this kid been missing?” The reality television producer’s eyes glowed like a kid’s on Christmas morning after seeing that Santa came.

/>   “Seven years,” Ronan answered grudgingly.

  “You work as a member of the cold case unit, detective?” McCabe asked, sounding positively giddy.

  “I do,” Ronan answered tightly, not liking where this was going.

  “This is brilliant, absolutely fucking brilliant!” McCabe laughed out loud, slapping a hand against Carson’s shoulder.

  “What’s brilliant?” Tennyson shot Ronan a confused look.

  “Shows like Long Island Medium and Tyler Henry, Hollywood Medium are old hat. We all know you can talk to the dead, Tennyson. The market is saturated with weeping families wanting to connect with their dead kids.”

  Tennyson gasped, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water.

  Ronan took half a step toward the stunned psychic before he realized what he was doing, as if some part of him were moving to protect the smaller man instinctively.

  “What we don’t have,” Brett McCabe continued as if he didn’t notice the psychic’s distress, “is a show featuring parents searching for their missing kid! We would feature interviews with the grief-stricken parents and siblings and show the two of you working side-by-side to bring the little mite home.” He looked back and forth between Tennyson and Ronan. “Well, what do you think? We’d call it Psychic Detective or something like that, but more clever.”

  Ronan didn’t know about Tennyson, but he felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. “Me, work with him?” He pointed back and forth between himself and a still stunned looking medium. “He doesn’t have a gun or any police training whatsoever!”

  “I know! Brilliant, right!” Brett McCabe crowed.

  “No! It’s not brilliant. Stop saying that.” Ronan could feel the tenuous hold on his temper start to slip away. “Look, pal, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but the Frye case isn’t just some ratings boost. They’re a real family with a real missing child.” Ronan held the Frye case file close to his chest. “This kid’s been gone seven years. He was five years old the last time his parents saw him. That’s seven Christmases with an empty place at the dinner table. Seven birthdays they didn’t celebrate with their son…” Tennyson’s hand on Ronan’s arm stopped his speech. A warm tingle spread through his body. He instantly and inexplicably felt calmer.