Dead Silent (Cold Case Psychic Book 3)

by Pandora Pine

  “Thank you for inviting us in.” Ronan mentally made the signs of the cross, like he would have done if this were some kind of vampire movie.

  “Fucking bite me,” Shawn muttered under his breath.

  Not with stolen dentures, asshole... Ronan almost burst out laughing.

  He climbed five short stairs leading into the living room which looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. There were empty beer cans, pizza boxes, and fast food sacks everywhere, along with dirty clothes and blankets. Shit, they were both going to need a good long soak in a bathtub filled with Purell when this was over.

  Ronan glanced over at Ten and saw that his partner wasn’t nearly as good at hiding his reaction to the Owens’ house… hovel…whatever.

  “You can sit at the table.” Shawn pointed to the dining room table which thankfully was only stacked with old newspapers and what looked like cardboard cases full of empty beer cans. Ronan added getting a tetanus shot to the list of things to do when they left today.

  As they got closer to the table, a dog attacked the sliding glass door, thankfully from the outside. It looked like a massive Rottweiler, but all Ronan could see were teeth. He added possible rabies shot to his list of things to do after they got the hell out of this house of horrors today. If they got out at all. Fucking Cujo looked hungry.

  “Monstro! Shut the fuck up!” Shawn growled.

  “Oh, you’re Disney fans!” Tennyson’s voice was a mix of awe and terror. He turned to Ronan. “Monstro was the whale in Pinocchio.”

  “Thanks, Alex Trebek!” They were about to die miserably and Ten was quoting Disney fun facts. Fucking awesome.

  Ronan shook his head. “So, like I said, we’re here to talk about your father’s murder,” Ronan started once everyone was sitting at the table.

  “Why is this being reopened after twenty years?” Shawn scratched the back of his head.

  Ronan made a mental note to get both himself and Tennyson checked for lice too. “The BPD Cold Case Unit is tasked with touching all cases in our archives that are more than five years cold. Your father’s case was assigned to me. The protocol here is to re-interview suspects-”

  “Hey! We were never suspects!” Debbie said with a sneer.

  “As my partner was about to say,” Ten offered her a fake smile, “we are interviewing suspects and witnesses in these cases. We’re also having all of the old evidence examined for fibers and DNA since the technology has changed so much in the last twenty years.”

  Debbie seemed mollified by Ten’s answer. She was what Tennyson would kindly call a woman of size. Ronan would call her something else. He would guess she was carrying an extra hundred pounds or so on her 5’5” frame, half of which was in her bosom. He’d guess part of the reason for her bitchy mood was the back pain those suckers must cause. The rest was probably caused by living in this dump with her asshole husband.

  “You speak to my bitch mother and bitchier sister?” Shawn asked.

  All class... “Yes, two days ago. They gave us their version of what happened that Christmas Day. Why don’t the two of you tell us what happened in your own words?”

  “We drove from Portsmouth to Dorchester even though we knew there was a fucking snowstorm coming. Our daughter was two, but Harold was too fucking stuck in his ways to change the Christmas plan.” Debbie sounded bitter even twenty years later.

  “What was the Christmas plan?” Ten asked gently.

  Shawn grimaced. “Same damn thing every year. Brunch with that shitty egg casserole no one but my sister liked. Then presents and prime rib, then the stupid Holiday Hotel movie or whatever the hell it’s called. It has to be the same thing every year. In that order.”

  “Why?” Ronan found himself truly curious to hear the answer.

  “Because my father’s the fucking boss, that’s why. My mother likes those things so we’re forced to endure them.” Shawn frowned.

  “Your sister said he was an equal opportunity asshole. A dick to one and all.” Tennyson looked like he was trying to control a case of the giggles.

  “She’s a fucking complainer, but yeah. It was his way or the highway,” Shawn agreed.

  “So, your life got better when he died?” Ten asked, sounding more in control of himself.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Shawn exploded, his fists pounding the table, beer cans toppled out of the cardboard cases and spilled to the floor with a strangely melodic tinkle. The dog, hearing his master yell, started attacking the door and barking.

  Ronan said a silent prayer that the glass held. His hand slipped to his gun, flipping the snap off the holster and turned the safety off.

  “My mother got nearly five million dollars when my father died! Five fucking million!” Shawn’s voice cracked on “fucking.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Tennyson agreed.

  “Yeah, you bet it is. You wanna guess how much of that she gave to me?” Shawn demanded.

  Ronan had a bad feeling about this. He didn’t want to guess. He knew the answer was zippo, zero, zilch. No mas dinero. But, there was no way in hell he was going to say that out loud and incite another tantrum.

  “Those dirty bitches kept it all, didn’t they?” Ten asked gently, a sour look on his face.

  “Damn fucking right,” Shawn agreed. “They put a trust together for Ophelia. Money for college or design school or some shit. There’s an executor who can only pay tuition, fees, and books with it, but if she doesn’t go to school, she can’t get the money until she’s forty! Forty fucking years old! Who the fuck does that!”

  “Fucking cunts, that’s who!” Debbie said. Years of hard living and jealousy shone in her eyes.

  “Did Ophelia go to college?” Ronan asked, figuring that would be a semi-safe topic.

  “She’s going into her senior year at UNH.” A hint of pride replaced the bitterness in Debbie’s eyes.

  Thank Christ, Ronan thought. At least she’ll be able to get the hell out of this pit when she graduates with no debt hanging over her head.

  “So, back to Christmas, your mother said you left early.” This was the part of the story Ronan was most interested in hearing before they’d rang the doorbell. Of course, now that the money issue was on the table, that seemed to hold equal importance.

  “My dad was pissed that we weren’t staying for dessert and the movie. Ophelia was sick and it was snowing. It’s a ninety-minute ride home with no traffic and no snow and there’s always fucking traffic in Boston. Getting my family home safe was more important than my mother’s movie and my sister’s dessert.”

  That was the first human thing Shawn had said so far. “How long after you got home did the baby start throwing up.”

  “She was sick in the car,” Debbie said. “I decided it was time to take her to the ER around five or six.”

  “Why didn’t you go with them, Shawn?” Ronan asked. “I mean you were just saying that you were worried about getting your wife and sick baby home from Dorchester safely and then when your baby was sick, you stayed home. Why?”

  “Ophelia was always a mama’s girl. My wife made sure of it. Kid didn’t want nothing to do with me when she was healthy, never mind when she was sick. So I stayed home. Is that a fucking crime?”

  It could be, asshole… It fucking could be.

  15

  Tennyson

  Two days later, Tennyson still couldn’t believe how much venom existed between the members of the Owens family twenty years after its patriarch had been brutally murdered. His own family situation, while not ideal, hadn’t been anything like the Owens’ with name calling and accusing each other of murder.

  His family had been silent after he’d come out as psychic and gay. Dead silent, to be exact, which Ten supposed was just as abusive as the name calling. His parents treated him as if he’d been invisible, which, after a while, he’d learned to deal with, but killing his parents had never once crossed his mind. He couldn’t imagine what the straw was that broke the murderer’s back, especially i
n a family as volatile as the Owens.

  God, he was just as bad as Ronan thinking about work when he was supposed to be relaxing and getting ready for his facial. Ronan had spent all of last night offering to give him a facial of another sort entirely, but Ten couldn’t bear to have some poor esthetician working on skin that only hours ago had been drenched in another man’s come.

  Tennyson had to draw the line somewhere.

  He was back in Swampscott, this time at a different salon. Cole’s wife, Cassie, had recommended this place, saying they had an amazing citrus facial and accompanying shoulder rub that Tennyson would absolutely love. That remained to be seen.

  This was just another way to relax and hopefully trick his mind into unblocking his gift.

  “Hello, Tennyson!” a buff, handsome and young man greeted him. The man was well over 6’, with bulging muscles and dreamy green eyes.

  Oh fuck… Ten offered a quick prayer that this man wasn’t the one who was going to have his big hands all over his skin for the next hour. “Hi there,” he managed with his voice barely squeaking. Christ, he sounded like the fifteen-year-old version of himself meeting Harry Styles. He really needed to pull himself together here.

  “I’m Thane and it will be my absolute pleasure to take you back to Patrice who will be working on your stunning face today.” Thane held out his arm for Tennyson to take.

  Ten set his hand on Thane’s forearm and felt the muscle ripple. Christ, he probably did that for all the pretty boys who came into the salon. And that line about his stunning face? He was sure that was canned too, but Ten still cherished hearing it from a guy at least ten years younger than himself.

  Thane led him to a cozy room, where a petite woman dressed in white was waiting for him. “Good morning, Tennyson, and welcome. I’m Patrice.” She held out a hand to shake with him.

  Ten took her hand, which was soft and not as strong as Thane’s. Thank God. He didn’t want his skull cracked open accidentally by an esthetician who didn’t know her own strength.

  “Well, Tennyson, this is where we must part.” Thane put a hand over his heart and bowed.

  Ten bit the inside of his cheek. “Thank you, Thane.” He turned to Patrice. “Was I supposed to tip him?”

  Patrice’s laugh was lyrical. “No, no, he’s just dramatic like that. Shakespeare scholar at Endicott College.”

  “Hmm, all of that and brains too. I’m impressed.”

  “Most men are,” Patrice sighed. “So, you’re here for the citrus facial.” Her mood seemed to brighten instantly.

  Ten nodded, taking a seat in the padded treatment chair. “A friend of mine had it a few weeks back and told me how wonderfully relaxing it was.”

  “Is your job stressful?”

  My lack of ability to do my job is more stressful… “Working with the public can be stressful at times.”

  “Oh, yes it certainly is,” Patrice agreed. “I’m going to get started with a nice scalp massage to relax you a bit, okay?”

  “Sounds heavenly.” Tennyson wiggled back in his chair getting more comfortable. He shut his eyes and focused on how warm his body was and the light scent of lemon that permeated the entire room.

  When Patrice started his scalp massage, he had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning out loud. This was heaven on earth. He’d have to try this out on Ronan some night.

  As Patrice’s gentle fingertips relaxed Ten even more, it reminded him of Gretchen the masseuse’s visualization exercise. Now would be a good time to try that out again. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind.

  He had really enjoyed the mental trip to Maui he’d taken, so he started there. Tennyson pictured the beach with its pink sand and the gently breaking waves. He could hear the breeze off the Pacific, rustling through the palm fronds while the sun warmed his skin.

  Now that he was even further relaxed, he thought back to what Bertha Craig’s spirit said about how his gift wasn’t gone, it was just blocked. In his mind, Ten saw his gift as a brightly wrapped box. It was sitting on a table in an empty room, wrapped in glitter paper with a giant red bow. The problem was that the door to the room was locked and there was no key.

  In reality, the brightly wrapped box inside the locked room was his mind and he was the key, but in this visualization exercise reality didn’t matter much. He wasn’t really lying in a sun-splashed hammock in Maui either.

  Ten pictured the empty room as a beach bungalow. Places like that always had a hide-a-key. Didn’t they? No matter. This bungalow had a hide-a-key. All he had to do was find it.

  Running up the three front steps, Ten stuck his hand in the mailbox. Empty. Okay, no worries. There was a porch swing at the end of the front deck. He lifted up all the pillows and ran his hands all over and under the swing. No key.

  It had been nearly two weeks since he’d lost his gift. He wasn’t expecting this to be a cake walk. Stepping down off the front porch, he walked around back. The sound of the ocean drew him in like a Siren’s song.

  There was another porch running along the entire back of the bungalow with a large rock sitting to the right of the stairs. Ten went right for the rock. He lifted it up and there was no key hiding under it.

  Feeling a little frustrated, he sat on the stairs, staring out at the clear blue ocean. He let the crash of the waves soothe him. He thought back to his time with Ronan at Sand Dollar Shoal. Sitting on the deck of the hotel, smelling the salt air and talking had been one of the best nights of his life. He was looking forward to their upcoming two-week stay.

  Ten couldn’t help thinking that this was where he wanted to be when winter wrapped her icy fist around Massachusetts again. He’d talk to Ronan about taking some time off around the holidays. Maybe the captain and Greeley would want to come too. Make it an annual family trip.

  He shifted in his seat to get more comfortable and felt a sharp poke in his right hip. Ten stood up and dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a shiny silver key. Christ, had this been there the whole time? It was warm in his palm as he turned it over.

  Not wasting another minute, he flew up the stairs and stuck the key in the lock. It turned easily and Ten was able to push the door open. There, sitting on the table, just like he knew it would be, was his gift. The glitter paper cast dazzling lights on the walls, like the reflection of sunlight on water. There was a gift tag on the box with his name on it.

  Ten reached out to pick up his gift…

  “Tennyson?” Patrice shook his shoulder. “Did you fall asleep on me?”

  His eyes popped open and his heart was racing. “No,” he said mildly, trying to keep his devastation at bay. “I was practicing a visualization exercise to relax.”

  “Well, damn, honey. You were so relaxed, you were barely breathing. Your facial is all done. I’m gonna sit you up in the chair now for your shoulder rub, okay?”

  He nodded, not really giving two fucks about his shoulder rub. His gift had been in sight. Hell, it had been within reach. His fingertips had brushed against the bright red organza ribbon. He’d been this close to having his gift back.

  Tennyson wanted to cry.

  16

  Ronan

  Ronan hoped this harebrained scheme of his was going to work. Tennyson’s face had been glowing when he’d gotten home from his facial appointment, but he’d never seen his lover more down in the mouth.

  It had taken some coaxing, but Ten had finally told him the story about the visualization exercise. What Ronan hadn’t understood was why Tennyson couldn’t just try it again. Ten didn’t have a good answer for it, but somehow, he knew that if he tried it again, he wouldn’t be able to find the key.

  He’d wanted to tell Tennyson that sounded completely ridiculous, but for once he’d kept his stupid mouth shut. Instead, they’d gone for a long drive up the coast and stopped for ice cream at Salisbury Beach.

  Apparently, this place was famous for its large portions because when Ronan asked for a large peppermint stick cone, the teenage girl behind the
counter had to ask him three times if he was sure he wanted a large. When he said he was, people around him in line actually pulled out their phones.

  Ordering the large had been worth it because Ten’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head and he’d laughed so hard, tears rolled down his cheeks. The damned cone was nearly eighteen inches tall. He posed for pictures with everyone who asked and took a few dirty ones of his own with Tennyson who’d grabbed a bowl and an extra cone and was content to share his overabundance of ice cream.

  The ride home had been a bit more somber. Ronan held his hand and promised they’d find a way to recover his gift.

  That’s why they were on their way to the Suffolk County Morgue this morning.

  Ronan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He knew the morgue was an odd place to try to recover Tennyson’s gift, but that’s where they were going all the same. He’d told Ten they were going to visit old friend, Suffolk County Medical Examiner Vann Hoffman to go over the twenty-year-old autopsy results for Harold Owens, but there was a second, surprise reason for their visit.

  “I’m actually looking forward to this trip to the morgue,” Ten said.

  “Jesus, no. Fight against it. Rage against the dying of the light!” Ronan yelled dramatically. It was a world gone mad if Ten was looking forward to a trip to the morgue. What the hell was next? Cats and dogs getting along?

  “Seriously?” Ten raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re such a drama queen sometimes.”

  “You hate the morgue. You hate the weird spirits that hang out there. You hate the way Vann Hoffman undresses you with his eyes.”

  Ten laughed. “No, you hate the way Vann undresses me with his eyes. Oddly enough, I’m okay with it.”

  “Slut.” Ronan snorted.

  “Aww, thanks, snookums!” Ten leaned over to press a kiss to Ronan’s cheek. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “If we were part of the Golden Girls, you’d want to be the Blanche, wouldn’t you?” Ronan slapped a hand down on Ten’s slim thigh. He wished they could hop in the backseat so Ronan could show him why Ten didn’t need the horny medical examiner giving him the eye.