by Amie Gibbons
PSYCHIC UNDERCOVER (WITH THE UNDEAD)
AN SDF PARANORMAL MYSTERY
AMIE GIBBONS
Copyright © 2017 by Amie Gibbons
Cover design © 2017 Oleg Volk
Cover art © 2017 Julia Ho-Sing-Loy
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2017
Gremlin Publishing
Nashville, TN.
https://authoramiegibbons.wordpress.com/
For my kitteh
Because he knows how to calm me down
And when to let me spaz
Table of Contents
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Epilogue
Chapter one
“You can’t shake a kitten in Nashville without hittin’ a musician, Mama,” I said, switching the phone to my other hand as I walked into the coffee shop.
“Hey, Special Agent Ryder,” Will half shouted from behind the counter.
I waved and shook my head with a grin.
I’ve been telling him for nearly a year to call me Ariana. He doesn’t listen. Honestly, I think it’s just cuz he likes the idea of having an FBI agent as a customer. He thinks it’s cool or something.
“I’m just sayin’, you have the voice for it, you’re already in Nashville, and you know your daddy and I have the connections. I don’t understand why you waste your time playin’ cop,” Mama said.
I pointed at the phone and held up five fingers at Will.
“The usual?” he asked.
I nodded and he got to work as I turned to talk to the wall.
“I’m not playin’ cop, Mama. I’m an FBI agent. I solve crimes. I help people.”
“You’re a civil servant in a job that pays you a tenth… a hundredth of what you’re worth with your gift.”
I rolled my eyes again. We’d been havin’ this conversation for a year and we’d probably keep it up till I caved and became a famous singer songwriter or a TV psychic… or some kinda mix.
“Mama, do you object to me being a civil servant, or a low paid one?”
“I object to you being undervalued. You could do anything. Go to law school, become a performer, start your own business, but you’re working for idiots and bureaucrats.”
Why was she tryin’ to get my dander up today?
“Mama, my boss isn’t either and don’t you go sayin’ he is.”
She snorted. “I was talking about the higher-ups. I would never insult your Grant.”
“Don’t you start with that again, Mama.”
“Of course not. Of course there’s nothing going on there.”
“Mama, just because you can’t write one book without a romance doesn’t mean-”
“I know, I know. I take it back.”
My call waiting beeped and I checked the phone. Kat. “Mama, it’s work. I gotta go.”
“Love you, peaches.”
“Love you too.” I switched over. “Hey, Kat.”
“Hey, Ariana,” Kat said in her best girlfriend’s tone.
“You want a triple shot, don’t you?”
“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“This junk’s gonna fry your system.”
I know lecturing her won’t do any good. She’s been on coffee forever. I think she had a caffeine IV ran through her umbilical cord as a fetus.
“Yeah, like you’re one to talk,” she said. “You didn’t get that short by drinking milk your entire life.”
I’m really not that short. I’m five foot two. Okay, I really am that short. Mama always jokes my siblings took the height, and since I’m the youngest, I got stuck with what’s left.
My brother, Mark, calls me the runt of the litter.
“Triple shot for the junkie, please,” I said to Will as I clicked off.
He poured the extra shot into her mocha without me needing to tell him which.
I checked my reflection in the mirror next to the counter. I looked pretty good, considering it was pourin’ cats, dogs, turtles, ponies, and dragons outside. My dark grey suit complimented my curves and the green silk top brought out my eyes.
“Two coffee’s, one mocha three shots, one frappuccino, one macchiato, and a latte,” Will said my usual order as he rang it up.
We have an account with Alfonzo’s. Grant set it up five years ago when the SDF, the Special Division Force, first started in Nashville and night cases became par for the course.
Grant’s really good at cuttin’ through red tape and bureaucratic bull, which is why he was named team leader in the first place.
Our division gets a lot of leeway cuz of the cases we deal with. Most of the time the main Bureau looks the other way when we bend rules or take shortcuts.
What are they gonna do, write us up for not waiting on a warrant to raid someone’s home to stop a vengeful ghost from killing them in their sleep?
I actually wasn’t there for that one; it was about two years ago, but I read the report.
Jet said the people tried suing them, claimin’ there were no ghosts and they never called for help in the first place.
Pretty crappy move considering false claims like that undermine everyone who has a real complaint against cops who actually break the law.
But that’s people for ya. They don’t want to believe in the supernatural, so they don’t. They make up stories to explain away the unexplainable. It’s the only way they can cope.
Believe me, I know.
Not that I blame them really.
How do you sleep at night if you know the lock on your door won’t do much good, and thresholds only keep vampires out?
The only reason I sleep is cuz I have charms against ghosts and supernatural doodads that act as a general ward that’ll deter most of your basic beasties.
I also have my magic carpet, Pyro, who’s better than a Rottweiler when he’s home.
Will handed me the two trays of drinks and my phone rang again. Boy, was I popular this morning. He put them on the counter as I grabbed my cell.
“Hello?”
“Don’t go to the office,” my boss, Westley Mercutio Grant said.
And believe you me, if any man in this world can pull off that name, it’s him.
“Dead body in an alley. Come straight here.”
He hung up before I could even say good morning. He does that. It’s annoying.
The text with the address popped up a moment later. West End at the bottom of Vanderbilt, just across from Centennial Park.
###
When I got to the scene, Metro officers were questioning the jogger who found the body and windin’ crime scene tape around the wide alley between two restaurants.
“Hi, General!” I handed him his large coffee, with two creams
already in, just the way he likes.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that, Ryder?”
I call him General cuz General Grant.
He sounds like a crab, but really doesn’t mind the nickname. He has some semblance of a sense of humor, which took me about six months to figure out cuz he never sounds like he’s jokin’ when he is and rarely smiles.
When he does smile, it’s a sight. He has the best wide grin and full cupid’s bow lips. His eyes are the color of iced over spring grass and they light up when he smiles. He’s over six feet and all muscle. He played football in college.
Grant’s only thirty-seven but his brown hair’s goin’ grey at the temples. He says it’s because he has to babysit a ton of kids, i.e. the three of us on his team, and it’s makin’ him old.
He’s always clean shaven, with wavy brown hair, and his clothes are always neatly pressed slacks and muted button-ups. I don’t think the man owns one piece of clothing with actual color. He has tan skin that’s a little wrinkled around the eyes, which I think makes him look as wise as he is.
From the way I describe him, you’d think I’m in love with him. I’m not. Mama thinks I am, but I’m not.
Really.
Okay, he’s strong and commanding and his eyes really are just that pretty...
Anyway.
“About a million, General,” I said, bouncing over to Jet.
I put the trays down because I knew what was coming next. Jet swooped me up into his arms.
He does it every morning. He’s six foot four and I’m tiny me so it’s funny.
“Hey, girl.”
Jet’s voice can only be described as warm chocolate. It’s okay when he calls me girl.
“Hey, Jolly Roger.” I hugged him back.
I call Jet that because he’s a pirate. Okay, not really, but he does look like one.
He’s lanky, has his black brillo brush hair, a neat goatee, and an earring in his left ear. He’s very pretty. Some mix of Asian, Hawaiian, black and white with slanted eyes, puffy lips and mocha skin, and boy, can he wear a color. Not many men can pull off pink.
He’s decided I remind him of his little sister and has basically adopted me. He calls at night to make sure I got home safe, and goes shopping with me and Kat.
“You done?” Grant’s cold voice brought us back to reality.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Jet put me down and picked up his camera again to take pictures of the alleyway.
I crouched by the body, regretting the decision to wear heels. They were sensible, short heels, but still not easy to crouch in. The rain pounded the crime scene, washin’ away evidence.
Which was probably why Grant looked like he wanted to spit a lemon at me for wastin’ time.
My hair was already frizzing and bustin’ outta my ponytail and I pushed it back, slicking it with the rain.
I hate rain, it hampers my abilities. I can’t smell anything but the rain, and my powers are always amped up by smells.
The girl was blond, blue eyed and petite. Her legs sprawled unnaturally and her long, black skirt was pushed up so we could see she had no panties on. She was barefoot and there were a few bits of gravel clinging to her feet.
I wanted to pull her skirt down and close her dead eyes.
“Wait for Kat.”
It was like Grant read my mind. He knew I wanted to touch the body, not only to allow the poor girl some dignity, but also to get my Impression.
Whenever I touch someone for the first time, I get the First Impression, no matter how bad it’s raining or how tired I am.
Most of the time, it’s something mundane, like them gettin’ their first puppy, losing their virginity, or gettin’ married. But sometimes they have something really big in their past, like being murdered.
I’ve seen a guy rape his girlfriend in a moment of stupid blind passion, a woman bash her abusive husband over the head and hide the body, and a guy shoot his brother.
I don’t get the full story, usually just some pictures and words. But sometimes I get them in theater quality, crystal clear picture, surround sound and smell-o-vision.
I pulled my hands back. The rain smacked my long, black coat and head. I wanted to reach into the clouds and pinch them closed.
I settled for closing my eyes for a moment and takin’ a deep breath. I’ve seen some horrible things since I got my powers almost two years ago, but this beautiful young girl bein’ dumped in an alley like she was trash… there weren’t words for something like this.
At least she wasn’t crawling with maggots. One thing the rain’s good for.
“Neck,” Grant said.
I looked at the neck. Nothin’. I walked to the other side.
Two perfect little holes right on the jugular.
“Vampire?” I asked, shaking my head. “I’m thinkin’ copycat, Grant.”
“Don’t. We don’t think anything until the evidence tells us to.”
We don’t know much about vampires cuz they’re so secretive. What we do know is whatever agents have managed to glean in the last few years from short run-ins with them.
They don’t like it when people get a whiff of the supernatural cuz it can lead back to them and that’s when you get people fixin’ to be vampire hunters. They wouldn’t leave the body out with the telltale teeth marks.
Right?
“It doesn’t fit what we know about them, that’s all I’m sayin’, sir,” I said.
Grant nodded.
I could practically see the wheels in his head turning.
“Help Bridges bag and tag,” he said, taking the camera from Jet. “Find out who owns this building and what they do with it, Kowalski.”
Jet nodded and took out his phone.
I went over to where Dan was swirling printing dust over the wall. It was dry due to the overhanging roof; the problem was there were too many fingerprints showing up, all of them overlapping and mixin’ together.
I set Dan’s coffee by him, and he grabbed it and started chugging without a thank you.
Yeah, he’s always a jerk. For some reason him and Jet have been best friends since boot camp, and when Jet joined the SDF three years ago because his fiancé Gallina was murdered by a demon, Dan followed.
Okay, technically the SDF asked him to join cuz he’s a computer genius who can hack pretty much anything. He’s arrogant as all get out about it.
Dan’s about five foot eight and burly. His square face, floppy brown hair, and blue eyes would be sweet looking if his personality didn’t ruin it. His black glasses and collared, checkered shirts really complete his geek-chic look.
Kat and Jet like him fine. I don’t see it. He’s nice enough to everyone else, he’s like a normal person who can joke and chat like anyone, but he’s nasty as curdled milk to me.
“Hello, Dan,” I said.
He bobbed his head back, smirking. He’s from New York, and thinks anyone from the South is a country bumpkin.
He called me Daisy Duke for the first month we worked together. Didn’t stop till Grant heard him and ordered him to cut it out.
I’m not a genius, but I’m not stupid. I went to Vanderbilt for college and got a double bachelor’s in political science and music, scored in the ninety-fifth percentile on the LSAT, and finished my senior year by taking online classes while I went through the FBI academy.
That was the longest seventeen weeks of my life, but I got by, and not on my looks, thank you very much. I read a lot and I’m a fast learner. But I’m from Alabama, so to Dan that means I have an I.Q. of sixty and my mother and father were cousins.
I was in the middle of bagging yet another cigarette butt, I’d lost count of how many this made, when Dr. Katrina Lang finally pulled up in her white M.E.’s van.
Dan got up to help Kat out of the van. She hopped down into his arms and still tripped on her heels.
Why such a klutz insists on wearing stilettos is beyond me. He caught her and held her up while she found her
feet. She gave him her sweet chipmunk smile before hurrying over to the body.
“Hey, Kat.” I handed over her mocha, sadly stone cold by now. She still took it with a smile and chugged.
“Thanks.” She finally came up for air. “I needed that.”
She’s Asian-American, a few inches taller than me, and skinny. She has almond shaped, golden eyes, and other than that, her cute round face always makes me think of a chipmunk.
I love her, she’s my best-friend, but she can’t dress for the twenty-first century to save her life.
She’s always in cute skirts that go out at the knees, with matching heels and sweater sets, or long dresses with big belts that make her waist look like a toothpick. Her shoulder length silky black hair is always either behind a headband or in piggy-tails, and the weird thing is, she pulls it off.
I put the blanket I always carry in my pack on the ground so Kat could kneel by the body without getting today’s ensemble, a bright blue dress under her yellow slicker, dirty. Her necklaces clattered together and one of the Metro detectives snorted, sneering.
I shot him a look. Nobody asked him his opinion on her clothes.
“Problem, Detec-tiv?” Grant asked, starin’ the man down.
He shook his head and went back to takin’ the photos for Metro.
Ohhhh, what had gone down before I got here?
“Rigor hasn’t fully set in yet. Based on that and the temp...” Kat’s eyes went up as she muttered calculations. “She’s been dead about five to seven hours.”
She pulled her liver probe out of the poor girl and I looked away.
I hate watchin’ that. When you can stick a probe in and they don’t twitch is when someone’s really dead to me.
Jet helped me bag while I waited for Kat to finish her initial exam and he waited on hold.
He was gettin’ the runaround from some business types. If they thought they could ignore him till he went away, they didn’t know Jet Kowalski.
He’s the best leg man in Nashville; relentless as a coon dog.
“She was drained,” Kat said. “She had sex before she died, possibly rape, but I can’t tell more until I get her on the table.”
