Sixth Sense (A Psychic Crystal Mystery)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Marilyn Baron
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Marilyn Baron
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Prologue
Chapter One
A word about the author...
Other Books You Might Like
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Sixth Sense
by
Marilyn Baron
A Psychic Crystal Mystery
Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Sixth Sense
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Marilyn Baron
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-933-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-934-6
A Psychic Crystal Mystery, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Marilyn Baron
SIXTH SENSE won the Georgia Romance Writers 2012 Unpublished Maggie Award for Excellence in the Paranormal/Fantasy category.
~
Marilyn is also Winner of First Place in the Suspense Romance category of the 2010 Ignite the Flame Contest sponsored by the Central Ohio Fiction Writers chapter of Romance Writers of America, as well as Finalist in the Georgia Romance Writers Unpublished Maggie Award for Excellence in 2005 in the Single Title category.
~*~
“Baron offers a bit of everything...There’s humor, infidelity, murder, mayhem, and a neatly drawn conclusion.” ~RT Book Reviews (4.5 Stars)
“Expertly handled relationship... a page-turning journey... a riveting read.” ~Anna K.
“Wonderfully witty writing...sharp characterization and...brilliant dialogue...humorous asides and...the quite fantastic twist at the end...left me with a real lump in my throat...highly recommended. Worth more than 5 stars if that were possible.” ~Andrew Kirby
“Ms. Baron’s portrayal of her heroine’s thoughts, feelings and actions was spot-on. Five stars! Highly recommended!” ~Pam Asberry
“[UNDER THE MOON GATE] is a surefire blockbuster…a treasure trove of mystery and intrigue. It sparkles with romance. The thrills and chills are unrelenting, and the writing is witty and engaging…I couldn’t recommend this more.” ~Andrew Kirby
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my critique partner, Anna Doll,
for her help with this manuscript,
and to Haywood Smith and Debby Giusti
for their advice and support.
Other Books by Marilyn Baron
Available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
UNDER THE MOON GATE
~
DESTINY: A BERMUDA LOVE STORY
(prequel to Under the Moon Gate)
Chapter One
Atlanta Police Department
Mini-Precinct in Midtown
Beauregard Lee Jackson Hale was a shit magnet. No doubt about it. And he could feel a mighty shit storm blowing his way.
“Hey, Wolf Man Jack, cover the front desk while I take a leak.”
Jack grimaced and walked by the empty waiting area toward Sarge’s desk. It was a fluke he was even in the precinct this late at night. He’d dragged in from the field to fill out some paperwork. Just his luck, after the day from hell, Sarge’s pea-sized bladder needed emptying. Sergeant Anthony Lisle’s bathroom breaks were legendary around the stationhouse.
“Don’t worry, Hale, it’s dead around here. I’ll be right back.” Famous last words. Sergeant Lisle rose from his chair and stretched his stubby legs as he reached for the remote to lower the volume on the flat-screen television set mounted over his desk. As an afterthought, he grabbed a magazine from his inbox. Reading material. A sure sign Sarge was in it for the long haul.
Jack shook his head, picked up the report he was working on, replaced the sergeant at his desk, and slapped the file down on the hardwood surface. Atlanta in the middle of the night was anything but dead. That’s usually when the crazies came out.
He looked around the empty, dimly lit squad room of the Atlanta Police Department’s newest mini-precinct and felt like Gulliver in Lilliput. Everything about this place was small. The chairs were designed for grade-schoolers. His six-foot-four-inch frame dwarfed the furniture. The whole precinct could fit into his one-bedroom-plus-den apartment. How thirty police employees squeezed into this cramped space was beyond comprehension.
He couldn’t wait for his undercover assignment to be over so he could move back to more mundane crimes like auto theft, burglary, robbery, drug arrests, and run-of-the-mill shootings and homicides. Cases that had a conclusion. Cases where perpetrators actually got caught. And tried. And convicted.
Ever since he’d grown a beard and gone on the trail—the stone-cold trail—of the Midtown Strangler, he’d suffered ribbing from the guys at the precinct and brought a negative publicity hailstorm of epic proportions down on the department.
If he’d had any success in catching the twisted bastard, things might be different. But the killer had brutally strangled five Atlanta College coeds, right around the corner from where Jack lived in his high-rise Midtown condo. And right under the noses of the officers in Zone Five, the same mini-precinct the mayor had opened precisely to protect the students at Atlanta College. Protect and Serve. He’d done a hell of a job. He hadn’t protected shit. He certainly hadn’t protected the five young girls whose dead bodies had been found naked in their dorm rooms right down the street. Now, after easy pickings on the Midtown campus, the killer had vanished, like a phantom, into thin air, left the planet without a trace, with no leads and little chance of capture. At least he’d stopped killing…in Atlanta. Maybe he’d moved on to greener pastures.
If he were alive, Jack’s father would have stopped the killer dead in his tracks. Sometimes his dad cut corners and didn’t always follow the rules. But he did what he had to do to get the job done.
Jack inspected his reflection in the stainless steel coffee tumbler mug on Sarge’s desk. In the scheme of things, whether he looked like a homeless wacko wasn’t high on his priority s
cale. He needed a change. He needed a shave. But he had promised himself he wouldn’t shave until he caught the strangler. And that wasn’t happening anytime soon. The investigation had hit a brick wall. An insurmountable, Berlin-style, brick wall.
Sarge had ordered him to resurface. It was a good thing, too, because he needed a bath. He needed a woman. He’d been so deep undercover even his mother wouldn’t recognize him. He needed to check in on his mother. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten her birthday or another important date. Since his father had been murdered, it had been up to Jack to make sure those special occasions didn’t go unrecognized. What he really needed was a secretary to keep him organized.
Jack picked up a pen and reached across the desk to answer the phone that wasn’t supposed to ring.
“Fifth precinct. Detective Hale. How can I help you?”
“The plane is going to crash!” a woman shouted. “You need to do something.”
Jack jolted forward, ready for action. A plane crash! Then his police training kicked in. Stay calm in a disaster.
“Could I get your name, please?” He reached across the desk and picked up a pad of yellow sticky-notes.
“It’s Katherine Crystal. But my name isn’t important. Vince Rivers and his son are on a plane, and it’s going down.”
This call was getting stranger by the minute.
“The movie star Vince Rivers? Are they on a commercial airliner?”
“It’s his private plane. Vince Rivers is the pilot.”
“When is this crash going to happen? And where?”
“I don’t know when it’s going to crash, but soon, and somewhere in Georgia.”
“Can you be more specific about the location?”
Dead silence.
“Let me get this straight,” Jack stated. “You can’t predict when or where this crash will happen?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“How what works? Do you have inside information about this incident? Is the crash weather-related? Is it terrorism? On what facts are you basing this call?”
“I saw it in a vision.”
“I see.” Jack exhaled, rolled his shoulders, laid down his pen, and flexed his right hand. Another lunatic. Predictable. Atlanta was full of them, and Jack was already drowning in a reservoir of bad feelings about so-called psychics. When he was ten, a psychic had taken advantage of his widowed mother and bilked her out of most of his father’s police pension. He’d had his fill of psychics, and he definitely did not believe this deluded drama queen on the phone.
“What do you want me to do? Tell Vince Rivers he can’t fly his jet anymore?”
“Do whatever you have to do to save them.”
Whatever you have to do. That had been Jack’s father’s motto. And his dad’s cop credo had proven to be a sure-fire formula for getting himself killed. His father had been a maverick, a cop’s cop. Everyone in the precinct made allowances for Jack’s cautious, plodding, by-the-book code because of his father. They also made the inevitable comparisons. And by any measurement, he came up short. The consensus around the precinct was: Jack could never fill his father’s shoes.
“If we grounded a plane every time a psychic made a prediction, nobody would fly,” Jack pointed out. “Law enforcement agencies can’t act on premonitions or crackpots calling in with false claims.”
“I’m not a crackpot.”
Jack scratched his beard. There was probably a family of fleas setting up house on his face. He was dog-tired, and he didn’t believe this conversation was happening. The woman’s story had as many holes as Bonnie & Clyde’s bullet-riddled getaway car. All he wanted to do was hop in the sack and spend the next day, maybe the next week, in blissful peace and quiet. No serial killers. No psychics.
“Tell me, Miss Crystal, if that’s really your name, do your premonitions always come true?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you call the Atlanta Police Department?”
“I didn’t know how to get in touch with Vince Rivers. Even if I did manage to get through, he probably wouldn’t believe me. I thought if a law enforcement agency contacted him he would take it seriously. But you were my last resort. I’ve called all the local news stations and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the national networks, CNN, everyone. No one will listen to me.”
Bingo. She’d called all the networks? She was nothing but a run-of-the-mill publicity hound. She wasn’t genuinely concerned about the lives of a man and his son. She was trying to make a name for herself, like all the rest of her kind. This chick was bugging the hell out of him. Where was Sarge? Probably whacking off in the head. Sarge had endless patience. Jack’s had just run out.
“Now you listen to me, Miss Crystal. I know your type. I’ve dealt with psycho-broads like you before.”
“I’m not a psycho.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong. Do you promise you’ll do something about this?”
“Yes,” Jack assured her as he released the last of his strategic politeness reserves to place the phone gently in its cradle, when what he really wanted to do was slam it in her face.
Any one of his fellow officers would have done the same thing in his place. Some hysterical woman calls out of the blue in the middle of the night with a premonition that Vince Rivers’ son was about to die in a private plane crash.
All his questions had been reasonable. All her answers had bordered on fantasy.
The department got prank calls from psychos and psychics on a regular basis. He couldn’t be expected to take all of them—or any of them, for that matter—seriously.
He didn’t make a practice of lying, but this was one promise he had no intention of keeping.
Jack bounded out of his chair, took the sticky note with the woman’s information, promptly crumpled it up, and aimed for the wastebasket. He jumps. He shoots. He scores! He didn’t alert the authorities. He didn’t pass the message on to his superiors.
When Sarge finally returned to his station, with a smile on his face, Jack did go on a coffee break, eat a stale doughnut, and try his best to forget about the whole sorry episode.
****
Katherine gripped the receiver and squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t get the picture of the crash to disappear. The mid-sized Gulfstream private jet was a burning hunk of metal, a wreckage of parts scattered like pick-up sticks in random disarray over an oily slick on the ground. The pilot, actor Vince Rivers, stunned, staggered out of his cockpit, still miraculously intact, a glint of moonlight reflecting on his pale, baby face and in his glacial blue eyes.
She tried to speak, but was overwhelmed by another clear vision of the movie star shouting for his son and sobbing as he covered the mangled body of the innocent young boy with his trademark black leather jacket. In her recurring nightmares, Vince Rivers survived. Ocean Rivers did not.
Katherine’s parents had warned her, drummed it into her head since she was in grade school, not to reveal her premonitions to anyone. For some unexplained reason, they were vehemently against her using her sixth sense or advertising the fact that she had psychic abilities. They didn’t want anything but visions of sugarplums dancing in their daughter’s head. But this vision was too powerful to ignore, and a young boy’s life was at stake. This was the right thing to do.
Katherine knew with certainty that the jerk down at the police station wasn’t going to do anything. She’d heard the contempt and the doubt in his voice. Well, she was going to march right down there and shake things up, make him listen.
Katherine stripped off her nightgown, dressed hurriedly, took the marble stairs two at a time, and slid behind the wheel of her blue BMW. Revving up the motor, she sped around the long circular driveway and made a left at West Paces Ferry Road, past the Governor’s Mansion and onto an eerily deserted Peachtree Street. Maybe she’d get arrested for speeding. Then someone would listen to what she had to say.
****
“Sarge, I’m done here,” Jac
k said, dropping his papers into a folder as he turned in his completed report. “I’m headed home. I’ve got some time coming, so I’ll see you next week.”
Jack hoofed it out of the squad room, his mind already wrapped around a bottle of ice-cold beer and a warm bed, when he ran smack into five feet four inches of soft, sweet-smelling woman.
Man, he was either really beat or sex deprivation was kicking in, big time. How could he have failed to notice her? She was about as hot as any woman he’d ever seen. Her thick black hair fell in a mass of ringlets he wanted to tangle in his hands as he held her full, pouty lips captive and kissed her senseless. He could gaze into those violet bedroom eyes forever. Not to mention a peaches-and-cream complexion he’d like to slowly lap up with his tongue. Though she looked like a disheveled gypsy, she was as tiny as a fairy, a very well-developed fairy, and she was madder than a starving pit bull.
The gypsy was dressed in a navy pencil skirt and a white form-fitting shell that left nothing to the imagination. Oh, and the pink necklace was a classy touch. He was having trouble not imagining Miss Junior League naked, under him, dressed only in that goddamned string of pearls. The mystery woman was the kind of glamour girl you ran into once in a lifetime. And now he was stuck with a hard-on the size of Greater Atlanta.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Detective Hale,” the vision said breathlessly.
He must be dreaming.
“Honey, I think I’ve been looking for you all my life.”
“Are you seriously trying to pick me up in a police station?” the sexy stranger snarled.
“It’s as good a place as any,” Jack replied, baiting her.
“Do I look like a prostitute to you?”
“No, but we are in the red-light district.”
“What kind of a cop are you?” she accused. “I need help. And that jerk Detective Hale blew me off.”
“You mind telling me why you want to see that jerk…er, Jack Hale?”
“I called earlier to report a plane crash, and I know he didn’t take me seriously.”
“You’re Katherine Crystal?”
“Yes.” Katherine glared, balling up her fists at her side. “Now I recognize your voice. You’re Detective Hale.”