by Amie Gibbons
Flash.
I saw Teri, er… Jo, through a thick dream fog as she sang on the stage. She had a big, booming voice as she belted it. She was dressed in usual Nashville spring attire, a sundress and cowgirl boots, and the crowd was a mix of people, from the usual Nashville urban cowboys to punks to suits.
Genres like that don’t mix at clubs. They’re usually more theme specific.
I pulled out of the vision.
Well put sugar on a swine, that wasn’t very helpful.
Flash.
It was the present. I could feel it. I heard voices but saw nothing but a blank slate of navy.
“I think they’ll come back tomorrow.” Mr. Kurt’s voice? Maybe?
“Then we won’t open,” another guy said. “Ask them if they want to come to talk to our patrons. If they say yes, we’ll move to the backup. Try to convince them it wasn’t any of us. I don’t want to move again.”
“But we’ll probably have to,” Kurt said. “This Grant guy isn’t going to let us slide by before digging up everything. He already has a man working on the subpoena for our taxes and business records.”
“Either way, we’ll need a new singer. I’ll stop by Lonnie’s and WannaB’s tonight to find one.”
“Are you sure I should stay away for a few days while you work this out?” Kurt asked.
“Yes. Jo wasn’t one of us, but she was ours. And them leaving her like that… she was a message.”
“Sir?” Kurt asked after a moment.
“You know, life goes on. I have to find a replacement and keep my business running, but that girl’s dead because of us. And now I have to find another one and… what? Hope the same thing doesn’t happen to her? Where I come from, you don’t use women like that. You don’t drag women into a war.”
The vision ended abruptly and I didn’t hear more than a whisper of Kurt’s response.
“Shoot.” I shoved my stuff back into my bag.
I hate present time visions because they happen in the same time as in the vision, which makes me basically comatose for however long the vision holds me.
I looked around until my eyes landed on Grant. He was kneeling down next to the bar, photographing something near the bottom.
His face was set in hard lines as he pulled the camera away to look at the picture he just took. He stared at it, then at the spot he just photographed.
Focused Grant.
I watched him until he lowered the camera.
“Spit it out, Ryder,” Grant said.
“How do you do that?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be the psychic.”
“Today, Ryder.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, relaying what I saw and then heard.
“We will tell him we will come by on the weekend,” Grant said. “Ryder, go over the floors and booths and bag everything down to a single spare string in this place. Kowalski!”
Jet jumped up from where he was helping Dan fingerprint the bottles and glasses behind the bar.
“Finish the photos.” Grant tossed the camera to Jet before disappearing through the door and Jet caught it one-handed.
We finished processing the scene and Grant reappeared soon after.
The second we got back to the office, Grant said, “Ryder, you’re assisting Irish,” before marching upstairs to talk to the director.
I rolled my eyes and ran to the lab.
I never get to do anything on my own. Welcome to the life of the probie.
Irish had found Jo online. Her full name was Joanna Cass. Jet and Dan were already on the way to her house.
I scanned the mess of fingerprints from the walls.
If you want to know the definition of tedium, it’s looking over about a hundred scans of overlapping swirls and trying to decide where one ends and another begins.
Irish was busy running DNA on one computer and comparing the threads I found to samples on another. It looked like all the threads came from the same black wool coat.
My phone rang and I looked up from my puzzle of dips and whirls. Oh man, I’d been at it almost two hours.
“Hello?”
“Director’s office, now,” Grant said.
“Yes, General,” I said.
He’d already hung up.
“Bye, Irish.” I gave him a peck on the cheek and darted out of the lab.
The SDF Nashville director, Tina Foster, is a nearly six foot tall statue of a woman, somewhere between forties and sixties, who has been in the FBI since law school, and rumors abound that she got the director job because of who her daddy is.
I straightened my skirt before walking into the director’s front office, basically her waiting room. Her assistant’s desk is in front of the door to her office and beige chairs line the opposite wall.
I always feel like a child going to the principal’s office when I’m sittin’ in that room.
“I… ugh, Grant told me to come up here,” I said to the director’s office gargoyle.
“She’s expecting you,” Mr. Crookshanks said in his scratchy old voice without looking at me.
I stared at the closed door. “Do I knock first or…?”
“Just go in, Agent Ryder.”
If he were this side of the Crypt Keeper, he would’ve rolled his eyes.
I opened the door, hand shaking. Why? What was I afraid was gonna happen?
That I’d get fired?
Yeah, that was up there on the fears list.
No idea why.
Director Foster rose as I walked in. She was in one of her typical pantsuits, white today, and it set off her tan skin and dark hair. Grant was already standin’ and based on the fading pressure prints on the desk, he’d been leanin’ over to get in Foster’s face.
“Close the door, Agent Ryder,” the director said.
I did with a nod.
Her office reminds me of Mama’s. Plush furnishings and carpet, lots of gold and royal blue, giant mahogany desk with every spec of paper lined up neatly.
Grant always says the director’s office is like her, too dressed up and only serves the purpose of looking important.
He’s said it to her face, too.
Of course Grant would never be so cowardly as to talk behind someone’s back.
I shook her hand before sittin’ in front of the desk next to Grant.
“Hi, Director Foster. What’s up?”
Oh idiot! What’s up? I’m not twelve.
She smiled. “Based on your vision, we believe it would be a good idea to get someone into that club tomorrow.”
I nodded along. Well yeah, if they were that secretive, it wasn’t cuz they were holdin’ spelling bees and knit-a-thons.
“The club’s finances are simple, well kept, and tell us if the owners want to leave, they can do so without leaving much of a trail.”
Wow, this was more than they’d normally tell a rookie. Mostly for us it’s, ‘Tag along, pay attention, and grab the coffee.’
Grant doesn’t go out of his way to spell things out.
So why was Director Foster?
I looked over at Grant. His face was set in hard lines.
Whatever was going on, he didn’t like it.
“We think we should put someone in at the karaoke bar tonight,” Foster said. “That someone will ask around to see if anyone’s offering a job, and then see if she can’t attract some attention, get in as the singer.”
I looked back at Grant and he stared straight at the director while she looked at me.
What the hell happened in here before they called me in?
I almost missed Foster’s next sentence and at first I thought I’d heard her wrong.
“I think that someone should be you.”
“Huh?”
It took a moment for me to collect my jaw.
Undercover work? Me?
“No,” Grant said, sounding like, well, like granite. “This is my case, Foster. I don’t know why you’re getting involved.”
“It’s my department, Westley.”
She’s the only one who dares.
His face didn’t twitch, but whoa doggy, it’s scary when he’s mad. He doesn’t yell when he’s really mad, only when he’s trying to scare a suspect in interrogation, or when we’re annoying him.
When he’s really mad, he sounds very cold… quiet… When he whispers, you’re already dead meat.
“She’s not ready for undercover work,” Grant said. “She’s a horrible liar and she has the most expressive face of anyone I’ve ever met. Find someone else.”
Okay, ow!
I flushed and Grant looked at me, hard.
Oh great, I’d just proved his point.
“Agent Ryder,” Foster said, “how many singing competitions have you won?”
“Um… as an adult or over my lifetime? Cuz I’d have to call Mama to be sure of the count.”
“Point,” Foster said to Grant. “Ryder, you will go tonight and you will get the singing position in the club. Now, you karaoke more than I do. Which is better, Lonnie’s or WannaB’s?”
I looked between her and Grant.
“Ariana, wait outside,” Grant said, so quiet I’m surprised the director heard him.
“Oh no, Westley.” Foster shook a finger. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”
I don’t think I want to hear this.
“She’s green,” Grant said, standing and looming over the desk. “She’s never gone undercover. We can’t risk it on a murder case. And if this bastard went after Jo, who’s to say he won’t go after Ariana if she does get in?”
I… crumpled. That’s what he thought of me? Couldn’t risk it on a murder case? As in, I’d screw it up.
“That’s why she’ll be bugged, Westley.”
Foster looked at me and I forced myself to meet her eyes.
“Ryder,” Foster said, “you’re the only one who can sing well enough to be a professional. All you have to do is sing, get the job, and look around. You don’t have to ask questions, or have an elaborate background story. We’re using your background, just without this past year. You’re a senior in college looking for a few extra bucks to help pay for law school. You will have a body cam on you the entire time with backup right outside. Can you handle this assignment?”
Well what was I supposed to say to that? “Um no, I’m scared it’ll piss Grant off, and I’m scared he’s right and I will screw it up?”
Not an option.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said as strongly as I could.
“Fantastic.” She walked to the door and opened it. “Which karaoke bar do you think is best to start with?”
“Um, I’d say Lonnie’s, ma’am. Little less commercial. Also, WannaB’s is posted. I don’t remember if Lonnie’s is but…”
“You’re a federal agent. Just keep your sidearm concealed.”
Little hard if I was going to dress to fit into the downtown crowd.
“Be there at nine. We’ll have surveillance in place,” she said as me and Grant walked out.
Foster shut the door behind us, and Grant cocked his finger at me.
I followed him down the stairs and into the bathroom on our floor.
It’s where Grant likes to talk when he doesn’t want an audience.
Whenever we say, ‘Take it to the bathroom,’ it means keeping something a secret cuz that’s where our team discusses things, especially secrets.
“I can do this,” I said, flinching as Grant looked down at me. “I’ve worked here for almost a year. I know I’m the junior agent. I’m the rookie. I get the coffee and I help everyone else cuz I can’t do things on my own, but I can do this.”
“You done?” he asked.
I nodded.
Sometimes I hate him. He won’t argue like a normal person. He tells you what’s what and lets you rant until you’re out of breath and then expects you to do things his way anyway.
“You will have an earbud and camera on you, and we will be in the van just outside the entire time. You get yourself hurt and I will fire you on the spot.”
He opened the door.
Discussion over.
“Grant, I can do this?” I said as we walked out.
It wasn’t supposed to come out like a question.
“I know, Ariana,” Grant said. “I know.”
Chapter three
I got home in pretty good time, a minor miracle around six in Nashville.
I live in a new townhouse gated community in Germantown. The houses live in lines of grey and pink, each with its own little backyard and high fence. The inside isn’t nearly as neat as the outside.
Grant says my place is a perfect representation of what’s inside my head: cluttered, overstuffed, and half the time things aren’t where I left them.
I dropped my purse next to the door and went straight for the bathroom.
I washed my hair and put it up in curlers. I wasn’t going to be attractin’ any attention with hair that decided to play a rat’s nest for the day. I blew it dry and left it to set while I scarfed down some chicken and pasta leftover from the BBQ at Grant’s last Sunday. I was making good time, at least until I paused at my clothes.
“What to wear? What to wear?”
The basic uniform of Nashville coeds is a sundress with cowgirl boots, and maybe a cowgirl hat. If I wanted to fit in, I’d have to do something similar.
But carrying on body with a sundress is a bitch. I’ve yet to find a thigh holster that stays put without cuttin’ off circulation, the under bra holsters make me uncomfortable because they have your gun pointed up at you and unless your top is loose, the bottom of the gun prints on those anyway, and boot holsters only work without rubbin’ your ankle raw if the boot’s really wide.
I settled on a belly band made to be worn against skin, and my pink and turquoise sundress that was tight under the boobs and then flowed. It was super cute, but made me look pregnant with the way it billowed out, so I didn’t wear it often.
I got dressed and was redoing my makeup when a rustlin’ and movement in the mirror told me the sun had gone down.
I jumped to the side and Pyro shot past me, smacking into the mirror. He pulled back and shook out his top third like it was a head and glared (don’t ask me how a flying carpet can glare, he just does) at me.
I giggled and Pyro flapped open and pulled me into a tight hug.
“Well good morning, baby,” I said as he let me go. “Hungry?”
He nodded and flew into the living room.
When I first got Pyro, I lived in a state of perpetual terror. I found him through one of my first visions and after I rescued (stole) him, I always feared someone in my area would notice him, maybe see him flying around at night, or he’d go flying and never come back.
But he loves me. He doesn’t remember his life before his last few owners so I’m the first person he’s had who has loved him without expecting anything out of him or abusin’ him.
By the time I got out to the living room, he’d already pulled out his cloth bag and was noshing away on a spool of red silk.
“Pyro!” I propped my hands on my hips. “You know better. Eat your cotton. You can have silk after you get some real food in you.”
He dropped the silk, staring at me as I put it away and pulled out the blue cotton.
“Don’t give me that look,” I said as I cut off a chunk of cloth. “You know veggies before dessert, and yes I’m channelin’ my mama right now.”
I tore up some felt and sprinkled it over the cotton and Pyro shrugged before diving in.
I ran my fingers over his back as he ate, smoothing and scratching off loose threads as I told him about the dead girl and me goin’ undercover.
He paused and grabbed his phone, typing out, “You sure you’re ready for that?”
I shrugged. “I kinda have to be. I’m the only one who can sing that well.”
“Want me there?”
“No! No, absolutely not. We can’t risk anyone seein�
� you. I mean, I love the guys, but if they see a flying carpet, I’m kinda afraid they’ll shoot you down.”
“I don’t like this.”
“I know you don’t, baby, but it’s my job. Now settle down, I have to finish combin’ you. Don’t want your threads loose in the city. Remember what happened last time?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He put his phone down and shook his tassels at me but settled down on my lap.
I was almost done when Grant called.
“Are you going to be on time for once?”
“Yes, General,” I said, looking at the clock. Okay, maybe not. “I’m leavin’ in a minute. I just have to take my curlers out.”
“You should have already left,” he said, voice practically a whisper.
I flinched. He really wasn’t happy about this plan.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be out in a minute.”
He hung up.
“Duty calls, baby,” I said, rubbin’ my hand over him one more time. “And duty’s in a pissy mood.”
I put the threads in a spelled wooden box and Pyro peered at them over my shoulder.
“You sure this won’t hurt them?” I asked.
He nodded and typed on his phone then passed it to me. “The box just keeps the magic from getting out. They’re fine.”
“I’ve got to ask. I’ve been keepin’ these for over a year. What do I do with them? Are they like shed skin or more like sperm? Cuz you refer to them as them.”
Pyro took back his phone, typin’ fast as a teenager. “Yeah, it’s sperm. Go find me a lady carpet. I don’t have genitals, but I need some loving.”
“Sassafras,” I said.
“Hey, I imprint on my owners. This is your fault.”
“I was never that sassy to my mama.”
He looked at me.
“Well, I’m not anymore.”
He crossed his tassels over his front.
“Fine!”
He uncrossed and typed, “They have magic, could be useful. They aren’t really me anymore, but if you can find someone to teach you some spells, you could do something with them.”
“I haven’t really met other magic users, except that evil girl on Valentine’s Day.”
I pulled out my curlers and put on my boots. Pyro gave me a quick squeeze before shootin’ out the open window.
