Celeste Files: Unjust

by Kristine Mason

  Celeste turned to her husband. “When did you talk to the detectives?” she asked, irritated that he hadn’t told her any of this.

  “I didn’t. I told Lola my thoughts and asked if she’d pass them along.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Jerry said. “We scanned the pictures confiscated from Comeaux’s trailer and sent them to the FBI. They’re going to use their facial recognition software to see if any of the pictures found in the trailer match unidentified victims in their national database.”

  “Right off, we got ourselves an ID.” Nick showed them a photograph of a young, beautiful woman with long, dark hair and wide brown eyes. “This picture of Nayelis Colón was taken days before she had been abducted on her way home from work—in Puerto Rico. She was nineteen.” He set another photo next to the picture of Nayelis Colón. “This is a copy of one of the pictures found in the box at Comeaux’s trailer.”

  When Celeste looked at the picture, a shiver ran through her. No facial recognition software was necessary. There was no mistaking the two photographs were of the same woman.

  “When one of our forensics investigators was scanning the pictures,” Nick continued, and pointed to the copied photo, “she thought this woman looked eerily similar to a victim discovered eight months ago. That vic was Nayelis.”

  “What happened to her?” Lola asked.

  “Cause of death was asphyxiation. But she’d been beaten, was malnourished and had signs of sexual abuse.”

  Jerry rested his hands on the table, and folded them. “We’re hoping the FBI can help us confirm that this woman, and Nayelis, are one and the same. If Comeaux was involved in human trafficking, and abducted this woman, the Feds will hopefully be able to track down Comeaux’s buyers.”

  “How many pictures were in the box?” John asked.

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Oh, my God,” Celeste gasped, and leaned back in the chair. “That’s horrifying.” She rubbed the center of her forehead where the sharp piercing throbbed. “Confusing, too.”

  Jerry frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Denis kept telling me that he wanted to show me what he was. Why would he want anyone to know what he’s done?”

  “It’s not like we can prosecute a dead man,” Nick said, his tone sarcastic.

  A ringing developed in her ears as her headache intensified. “I get that, and I also know his spirit in death is just as evil as it probably was in life. So I highly doubt he’s trying to help these women in order to save his soul.”

  Nick shrugged. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  “I have no choice but to believe.” She lifted her chin and pointed to the mark along her neck. “He somehow did this to me. These too,” she added, and showed him her wrists.

  Nick flicked his gaze from her neck to her wrists. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but some might say that you hurt yourself. You know, for attention.”

  John chuckled and reached under the table for her hand. He gave her a gentle squeeze and stared at Nick. “You might want to watch how you talk to my wife.”

  “Is that a threat? Because your wife should be in jail for breaking and entering. As it is, the only reason we’re humoring her psychic crap is because of Lola.”

  “God, Nick. Way to be a jerk,” Lola said, her voice rising in anger. “If Celeste and Barney hadn’t gone into Denis’s trailer, you wouldn’t know about the women.”

  “We would’ve eventually.”

  Jerry shook his head. “Doubtful. There was no reason to search his trailer. We had a confession from Gabe—even if he recanted it—and evidence that Comeaux was murdered on the boat. This case was pretty much cut and dried. Two guys on a boat during a storm, they fought over a lifejacket and only one survived.” He shrugged. “All the necessary evidence points to Gabe. But now we have something more,” he said, and tapped a finger near the photos. “Again, I’m not saying I believe in psychics, but if I did, I’m also wondering why a dead man would want his crimes discovered.”

  The ringing in Celeste’s ears turned to a roar. “Vengeance. Denis told me that’s what he wants.”

  “Against who?” Jerry asked.

  “I’m assuming Gabe.”

  “So your ghost is accusing Gabe of killing him,” Nick said. “Again, the evidence we have already says as much. But, I’ll admit, the pictures are a big lead. So thanks for breaking the law and alerting us to them.”

  “That’s enough, Nick,” Jerry said, his focus on her. “Let me ask you something. You told Lola you thought most of the women Comeaux photographed were now dead. Why do you think that?”

  She squeezed John’s hand tight to avoid pressing her fists to her ears to stop the roaring. These detectives didn’t believe her, and she didn’t need to give them any other reason to think she was out of her mind. “Because only the dead talk to me.”

  Nick raised his dark brows. “My dad died a few years ago. Are you telling me you two could have a conversation?”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” She wiped the perspiration dotting her upper lip. “They come to me. I’m still learning how to control what I can do.”

  “Where? At psychic school?”

  “And I thought I was an asshole,” John said.

  Nick slapped the table, then gathered the photos of the dead woman. “We’re done. Lola, don’t pull this shit with us again. Get them out of here before we charge Celeste for breaking into Comeaux’s trailer.”

  “Try it,” John said. “And I’ll—”

  “Enough,” Celeste shouted, which only amplified her headache and the roaring in her ears. She let go of John’s hand and stood, but then dropped right back into the chair when a wave of dizziness blurred her vision.

  “Are you okay?” John asked.

  “Just get me out of here,” she said, worried Denis was near.

  Jerry turned to Nick, leaned in and whispered something. Nick then rose and left the room. “Celeste, please stay,” Jerry said. “I apologize if Nick upset you. I asked him to go get you some water. You look a little pale.”

  “I’m not feeling well.” She ran a shaky hand along her damp forehead. “We really should leave. I’m sorry, but I can’t meet with Gabe today.”

  “Gabe refuses to meet with anyone, even his attorney.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “The women. You said only the dead talk to you. When you were in the trailer and touched the pictures, did you…hear anything?”

  She stared past Jerry, to the dark-gray cloud developing in the corner of the wall behind him. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Yes. They spoke in Spanish, or English with a Spanish accent,” she said, never taking her gaze from the undulating mass of smoke. She wanted to ask John or Lola if they saw what was behind Jerry, but already knew the answer—they were still in the room.

  “Leave, sugar.”

  Another tear escaped. “The women were saying, ‘run’, or ‘help me’, or ‘it hurts’,” she said, wanting to give those women a voice before Denis tried to stop her. “During my vision the other night, he had a girl with him. She looked like the others from the pictures.”

  “Young, Hispanic?” Jerry asked.

  She nodded, which made her heavy head hurt even more. “Denis took pictures of her after he spoke with someone on the phone,” she said, just as tendrils of the dark smoke whisked from the wall and floated toward Jerry.

  “Do you remember what Comeaux said while he was on the phone, or could you tell where you were?”

  “I think Louisiana, but I can’t be sure.” She winced when the noise in her ears increased by several decibels. “But I remember him saying that the girl was eighteen, and that she had the type of body and hair the man wanted.” She used the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her brow. “Denis told the man that the girl claimed to be a virgin, but that she could be lying, so if the man didn’t want her, she would go to the next highest bidder.”

  “John, is that why you had Lola sug
gest we consider Comeaux was involved in human trafficking?” Jerry asked.

  “I thought it was worth checking.”

  “Since Gabe isn’t willing to talk to Celeste,” Lola began, “maybe she could do a reading using the photographs of the women.”

  “Nick won’t like it, but I’m intrigued and can’t see how it’d hurt. What’d you say, Celeste? Mind doing whatever it is you do to try to connect with the women?”

  “I’m warning you, sugar. Leave. Now.”

  Staring at the gray cloud haloing Jerry, she fought the pressure pounding against her skull and dragged in a deep breath. Unable to fill her lungs, the room temperature becoming increasingly warmer, Denis’s whispered threats filling her head, she panicked, gripped the table and stood. “I need out of here.”

  John quickly rose, and wrapped an arm around her. “What’s wrong?”

  “At the trailer I accused Denis of murdering those women. When I did, he did something to me.”

  He wiped the sweat trickling along her temple with his thumb. “You said you became very hot and couldn’t breathe. “Is that happening now?”

  She nodded. “I don’t think he liked being accused of murder,” she said, then glanced from Lola to Jerry. “Sorry. We need to leave. He doesn’t want me here.”

  “Is he here now?” Jerry asked, his tone curious.

  She looked to the detective, then to the cloud. “He’s right behind you.”

  Jerry’s gaze never wavered from hers. “What does he want?”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think he wants me talking to the women.” Taking shallow breaths, she hung onto John’s arms, and looked to the manila folder resting where Nick had sat. They’d found forty-eight pictures in that old wooden box. Forty-eight. How many of those women were dead? How many were still alive and suffering? Either way, they all needed justice.

  “Come on, hon.” John pressed his hand along her back. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “No. Just give me a second,” she said, and sat back in her chair. “What does a ghost care about being accused of murder or human trafficking? Why would Denis care if I tried to talk to the dead women?”

  Tendrils from the cloud uncoiled and stretched to a point directed straight at her. “Leave the women alone. Talk to Gabe.”

  “Or else?” The fluorescent light gave a brief flicker. She glanced from it, to the cloud. “He wants me to talk to Gabe.”

  “I can get you an object from him for your reading,” Jerry said, his eyes holding a strange combination of interest and disbelief. “But I can’t make him talk to you.”

  “No object. You talk to him.” The cloud hung over the table, emanating malevolence and hatred. “Now. I need revenge.”

  Memories of the way the smoky mass had pried its way into her mouth and body, dragging her into the unknown, filled her head with determination. “No.”

  “I’m confused,” Jerry said. “I thought you needed an object for a reading.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you.” Celeste met the detective’s gaze. “I don’t want to do a reading for him yet. I want to talk to the women.”

  “Leave the women,” Denis repeated, his tone desperate yet threatening.

  The lights buzzed, then flickered again. The cloud darkened. Her head pounded as she stared at it. But she wouldn’t allow the dead man to bully her. He’d wanted her to find out what he was, and now she knew, or at least suspected that he had abducted and sold those women to the highest bidder. Not wanting to speak out loud and have Jerry and Lola think she’d lost her mind, she attempted to speak to the dead man with her inner thoughts. “Why? What do you care? And what did Gabe do to you?”

  His soft chuckle sent tension up her spine. “What do you think, sugar? He killed me.”

  Chapter 8

  “A FREAKING SÉANCE?” Celeste overheard Nick ask Jerry.

  She turned away and drank the Diet Coke John had bought from the vending machine. She couldn’t blame Nick for not believing her. She could have made the marks on her body. What she and Barney had found at the trailer would have eventually been discovered. And the evidence they had against Gabe was enough to charge him with Denis’s murder. After all, it was a little hard to believe that Gabe was innocent when it had been just him and Denis on the boat that night, and Denis had ended up dead, a knife wound to his chest.

  “Don’t listen to him,” John said, his focus on Nick. “The guy’s a dick.” He glanced to Lola. “How do you work with him?”

  “He’s usually not like this. But I’ve never brought him a psychic.” She looked to Celeste. “Are you sure you’re okay? You still look a little pale.”

  Once Denis and his cloud had disappeared, the headache, the heat and the roaring in her ears had gone away, leaving her exhausted and drained. “I’ll be fine. I really want to see if I can connect with the women.”

  “Should you call Maxine first?” John asked.

  Lola raised a brow. “Who’s Maxine?”

  “I like to think of her as my psychic mentor.” Celeste smiled. “She’s a friend of Ian’s.”

  “Ian has a psychic friend?” Lola cocked her head. “Interesting. Has he used psychics on cases before?”

  Since Ian was marrying Lola’s mom, Celeste and Lola would soon be family by marriage. But they weren’t blood, and although she liked Lola, she didn’t really know the woman. Divulging that Ian had used Celeste’s mother—who was also psychic—during his days with the FBI was something she’d leave for Ian to share. As it was, other than the journals Celeste had from her mom, along with a few stories from Ian, she still didn’t truly know the full extent of what her mom had done for Ian.

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask him,” she said, then looked to John. “I’ll call Maxine later. I don’t want the detectives cutting my time short because they think I’m wasting theirs.”

  He brushed a knuckle along her cheek. “Do you want me to sit with you?”

  She thought about the grounding method Maxine had taught her. How she could hold an object in one hand, and scribble on a piece of paper with the other. How that scribbling had helped to keep her grounded as she drifted to another plane, another place or time.

  How it could lead to a trance she might not remember.

  With a ghost stalking her.

  “You don’t mind?” she asked. “You and Lola should be at Polina’s Paradise for training.” “We’ll make up the training session later. I want to be with you.”

  Lola sighed. “Aww, that’s so sweet.”

  Celeste grinned when John rolled his eyes. “I prefer supportive.” He took Celeste’s hand. “Looks like the detectives are ready for you.”

  After drawing in a deep breath, Celeste and John walked toward the two men. Nick opened the door to the same room they’d been in earlier and let them inside. On the center of the table was a cardboard file box labeled CASE #77721. Next to the box, someone had brought in the notepad and pen she’d requested.

  “Where’s the silverware box?” she asked.

  “That and the pictures are inside here.” Nick tapped the file box. “The wooden box is in a brown bag, and each individual picture is in a plastic bag.” He set a couple of pairs of latex gloves on the table. “Forensics has already checked for prints. Since this is an ongoing investigation, we’d prefer if you wore gloves.”

  “Will that affect your reading?” Jerry asked.

  She shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out,” she said, taking a seat.

  Once John was also seated, Jerry said, “We’ll let you at it. There’s a deputy in an office next door to the left. When you’re finished, or if you need anything, have him contact me or Nick.”

  She thanked Jerry, then once the detectives and Lola had left the room, shutting the door behind them, she looked to the mirror on the opposite wall. “Do you think they’re planning on watching me?” she asked.

  “Count on it. For all they know you could take a black marker to the pictures and dest
roy important evidence.” He handed her a pair of gloves. “Is being watched going to give you stage fright?”

  She grinned and finished tugging on the gloves. “I don’t know about that. I was more concerned the detectives were going to want to stay in the room and watch. I don’t think I would’ve minded Jerry and Lola sticking around, but Nick’s negativity made me uncomfortable.”

  “If Nick’s listening, then he now knows.” Wearing the other pair of latex gloves, John pulled the brown bag from the file box. “So you might want to watch what you say.”

  She couldn’t care less what Nick, or Jerry for that matter, thought about her. But she did want to be able to obtain something for the detectives to use to help discover what happened to those women and give them the justice they deserved. “I’ll be good,” she said, as John took the wooden box from the brown bag and set it in front of her.

  “You’re right. It’s an old silverware box,” he said, then set another bag next to it, this one filled with the individually wrapped pictures. “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

  “Not a thing.” She touched the initials Denis had carved on the wood box with one hand, and picked up the pen with the other. She scribbled on the notepad and stared at the box, hoping, searching for that familiar tug and pull to her psyche that would take her to another time and place.

  Nothing.

  “What’s wrong?” John asked when she pushed the box aside.

  “I can’t get a reading.” She picked up one of the photos. “I’m going to try the pictures.” She focused on the picture and once again scribbled on the notepad. Still nothing. She picked up another photo and tried again. “Damn it,” she muttered. “I don’t get it. At the trailer they weren’t shy, and Denis was in the room.” She turned to John as a thought occurred to her. “I wonder if the women aren’t just connected to the pictures, but to him.”

  “Like ghost groupies?”

  “That’s not the term I would have used, but yeah. Sorta. If he abducted and sold them, then he is the reason they’re dead.”