by Roy Johansen
“What?”
Joe filled her in on the rearrangement of his apartment. As he spoke, it seemed even more inconceivable. Suzanne briefly quizzed him, asking the same questions he'd been asking himself. Who would be so intimately familiar with the apartment's previouslayout? Who would have a reason to do something like that? He still didn't have the answers.
“That's just bizarre,” she finally said.
“Tell me about it. I was going to go crazy unless I could talk to somebody.” He sighed. “Not just somebody. You.”
Suzanne was quiet for a moment.”I've never heard of a ghost giving a warning.”
“Look, I'm not here for you to play ghost psychologist. I just need your help in figuring out how this could have happened. You're an expert at this kind of fakery.”
“So are you.”
“I need an objective eye. Where Angela's concerned, it's hard for me to be objective.”
“I'd be worried if you couldbe.”
“I've talked to Sam about audio tricks, but it's really not his field. You're pretty current on a lot of this stuff. Any ideas?”
“Slow down. I still haven't said I'd help you. I'm not through being pissed.”
He nodded.”I don't blame you. I wish I wasn't asking you for help. But it's not just about me, it's Nikki.”
“I know. And if someone really is faking this, it's the lowest of the low. It's like the charlatans I see all the time.”
“Do you still go to sÉances every week?”
“The more I see, the better chance I have of finding someone who isn't bullshitting me. Sometimes it takes two or three visits, but I always find out how they do it. Of course, you still probably think I'm doing it to pick up methods for my own use.”
“I'm trying to keep an open mind. Whatever yourreasons, it makes you the person I need right now.” He paused.”Please.”
She bit her lip. “I have an idea. Will you be home tonight?”
Joe caught up with Carla and Howe in the squad room shortly after one P.M. They were studying the medical examiner's report for victim number three, who had been electrocuted by his garage door.
Joe threw his jacket over his chair back. “Does the report tell you anything you didn't already know?”
Carla shook her head.”Just that about twenty thousand volts went through him.”
“Hell of a spike,” Howe said. “We already figured that whoever did it must have tapped into the power transformer.”
“Can the power company back that up?”
Carla shook her head. “They can't even get my bill right. What makes you think they can help us with something like that?”
Howe nodded.”I checked with the company, but if it's not on a meter, they're pretty useless. There are surges all the time.”
“Gotcha.”
Carla leaned close to Joe. “How are you holding up? It must have shaken you up to come home and find your place like that.”
“Yeah.”Joe paused.
“Spill it.”
“Spill what?”
“Whatever's on your mind. You're among friends here.”
Joe smiled. Carla was one of the sweetest and most perceptive people he knew. Another reason why she always got the guys.
Joe took a deep breath and told them about hear-ingAngela's voice in his room the night before. To his surprise, they didn't look at him as if he were totally crazy.
“Are you sure you weren't dreaming?” Howe asked. “I mean, after what you'd been through, you were already thinking about her.”
“You're talking to me the same way I talked to my daughter the other night. It wasn't a dream. I stood up and turned on the light. The voice was still there, and it sounded like Angela's. I'm sure that's what Nikki heard.”
Howe frowned. “Each of the victims heard voices in the days before their deaths.”
“This is different,” Carla said. “Those weren't specific to anyone that they knew. Joe knew this voice.” She turned back to face him. “Did you go over the room with your spirit kit?”
“Yeah. I couldn't find anything.”
“I don't like this,” Carla said. “If you're convinced that it's not your wife—”
Joe interrupted her. “IfI'm convinced? Surely you don't believe—”
“I don't know what to believe, Joe, but someone could be doing a number on you. It could be the same person who's killing these people, and he was actually in your home.”
“Believe me, I've thought of that. The fingerprint guys have already been out to my place. There's nothing more anyone can do right now.”
carla pursed her lips. “Have you told Nikki?”
“No, not about hearing Angela's voice. I want to keep this from her as long as I can.”
“I don't like this, Bailey. If you notice anything else, let us know right away.”
“Don't worry.”
Two uniformed officers entered the squad room with a young man with dark shoulder-length hair. “Detectives?”
Howe stepped forward.”What's up?”
“We picked this man up on a trespassing charge. Some neighbors called it in. He was poking around Thomas Coyle's residence.”
AKA victim number four, Joe remembered. The man who was dragged behind his car.
“So?” Carla asked. “The crime scene has been broken down. Did he take a swing at you or something?”
“He was unresponsive,” the officer said. “He said he'd talk to only one of you.”
Joe looked at the man. There was something familiar about him.
“Okay,” Howe said. “You have our attention. But first, why don't you give us an idea who the hell you are?”
The man flashed a smile that was unnaturally bright.”Of course. My name is—”
“Barry Roth,” Joe finished for him.
Roth looked flattered.”Yes.”
“You know this guy?” Carla asked.
Joe nodded. “You would too if you had an eleven-year-old daughter. He's another psychic. He has a call-in show on the music video channel.”
“I flew here from New York to help you,” Rothsaid. “You really should listen to me, Detectives. I've helped several police departments.”
Howe nodded. “And I'm sure you have a stack of testimonials from small-town sheriff's deputies, right?”
“Yeah. Small towns like New York, San Francisco, and Chicago. I helped them, and I can help you.”
“And help yourself too,” Howe said caustically. “Hey, we'd all win.”
“That's why you were at Coyle's place?” Carla asked.
Roth nodded. “I've been trying to arrange a more formal meeting with your department, but no one has been interested in returning my calls.”
“Look, we're really not interested in seeing this case played out between Snoop Dogg videos,” Joe said.
“This isn't for my show,” Roth said. “I play to the Clearasil set. They want to know if their boyfriends are going to ask them to the prom or if their parents are going to give them cars for graduation. Trivial things like life and death have little appeal for my audience.”
“So why are you here?” Joe said.
Roth pulled a felt-tip pen from his pocket, uncapped it, and wrote something in the palm of his left hand.
“I've had enough,” Howe said. “Carla, we have an appointment with the medical examiner to discuss this report. Why don't we just—”
Joe grabbed Howe's arm.”Wait a second.”
Roth held up his hand and showed them a circlewith two intersecting lines, much like the ones they had found on Monica and the murder victims.
“Aw, shit,” Howe said. “Now we gotta talk to this son of a bitch.”
“I'll do it,”Joe said. “This is my thing.” He motioned to Roth.”Follow me. You just bought yourself a ticket to the Cave.”
“What?”
Joe led Roth to Interrogation Room A, known in the squad as the Cave due to its lack of windows and drab pencil-lead color scheme. The hue had been suggeste
d by a high-priced behavioral psychologist, who maintained that it would throw criminals off kilter and elicit faster confessions. As far as Joe could tell, the Cave only threw the cops off kilter.
He pulled Roth's arm across the table, raised his digital camera, and snapped a picture of the circular symbol. He inspected the picture in the camera's LCD screen. “Okay, tell me how you knew about this marking.”
“I saw it in a dream. I'm not sure what it means, but I think it's related to these killings.”
“You know that this could make you a suspect, right? We've withheld any mention of this to the media.”
Roth snorted and placed a fat manila folder in front of Joe. “I guess I was the perp in all of these cases too, huh?”
Joe opened the folder and thumbed through its contents. It was packed with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and written testimonials from grateful relatives and law enforcement officials. “I'mfamiliar with some of your cases, Mr. Roth. On the face of it, you've done some amazing work.”
“Only on the face of it?”
“For what it's worth, I think you're probably better at your craft than Monica Gaines. Before you started on the music video network, you were associated with some fairly high-profile cases.”
Roth shrugged. “I usually donate my services to criminal investigations. Television is where the money's at, I'm afraid.”
“Don't apologize. But tell me this, have your gifts ever enabled you to identify a criminal who wasn't already a suspect?”
“Sure.”
“By name?”
“By initial.”
“Ah. Let's see…. His last name begins with S or J. Right?”
Roth stared at him.
“If I look through this file, will I find out that in those cases, the eventual suspect's last-name initial is S or J? Because it's the most common last-name initial in the English language. If it turns out not to be true, it's either forgotten or you can find someone connected to the case whose last name begins with those letters.”
“Perhaps I'm talking to the wrong man. Is there someone else—?”
“No. What do you want, Mr. Roth?”
“I want your department's cooperation. I think I have something to offer.”
“I'm afraid that our department's cooperationwith the psychic community began and ended with Monica Gaines.”
“You're not even willing to listen to me?”
“Sure, I'll listen. Why don't you start by telling me how you found out about that symbol?”
“I told you. I dreamed about it.”
“Right. But have your dreams told you anything that we don'tknow? Something we can verify?”
“Not yet.”
“Mr. Roth, you don't need our cooperation. Most of the crime scenes have been broken down, and you can go there yourself with permission from the property owners. There's a task force tip line you can call if you get any more insights. I'll make sure the receptionist gives it to you on the way out.”
Roth nodded. “I know the drill. But you have to realize that this isn't a normal murder case, Detective. That's why I came all the way here. There are forces at work here that you don't understand. That I don't understand.”
Joe stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I wish I knew. Thank you for your time.”
Roth reached for his folder, but Joe scooped it up first. “Mr. Roth, would you mind leaving this with me? I'd like to look it over.”
“Sure. I'd be honored.”
Joe stood and walked him out of the interrogation room.
Forces at work here that you don't understand.
Roth's words probably wouldn't have affected him so much if he hadn't been still reeling from hearing Angela's voice the night before.
Keep it together, man.
“Another glass of wine, Tess?”
Shawn Dylan motioned for the waiter. He and Monica Gaines's producer were comfortably seated in the lounge of the Buckhead Ritz-Carlton. A piano played softly in the lobby nearby.
Tess Wayland leaned back in her chair. “I really shouldn't.”
“Why not? You've already taped tonight's show, right?”
“Yes, but there's still tomorrow's show, and the day after.”
“You have to learn to relax.”
She laughed. “I don't even know why I'm here. I don't usually do this.”
“I'll bet you say that to all the guys.”
“No, seriously. I don't even know your last name.”
He smiled.”Maybe that's because I never told you.”
“Maybe I didn't care to know. Maybe I still don't.”
“Oh, you care.”
She gazed at him. “You're right. What's your last name?”
“After you finish your next glass.”
As if on cue, the waiter brought two more glasses of Chardonnay and took away the empties.
Tess smiled.
It was working, Dylan thought. He'd trained for this, and although it had worked for him dozens of times before, he was still amazed it was so effective. A few hours in his hotel room perusing online databases had helped him enormously. An article in Working Womanhad told him about her background, hobbies, and extensive collection of Murano glasssculptures. He'd waited in her hotel lobby and complimented her on her crystal lapel pin, remarking on its similarity to the Dark Mystiquesculpture he'd always admired. How could she know that he'd seen the sculpture's full-size replica in the magazine layout of her Vancouver home?
The rest had been all too easy. Just a matter of pushing the right buttons.
“Tell me about the art commodities business, Victor.”
His new name. Victor Sbarge.
“My investors trust me to spot paintings and sculptures that will quickly appreciate in value,” he said. “I purchase the artwork, then resell when the time is right.”
“It's that simple?”
“Pretty much. There are complications here and there, but that's the essence of it. I think your job is far more interesting.”
She laughed. “Interesting like a torture chamber.”
“Aw, come on.”
“Monica Gaines isn't your usual boss.”
“Having a boss who reads your mind would be pretty unnerving.”
“It's not that. It's that I'm usually the last line of defense, you know? Half the world wants to bring her down and show the other half that she's not what she claims to be.”
“And isshe what she claims to be?”
Tess was quiet for a moment. “Monica Gaines is the most amazing woman I've ever known.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“She's the real thing. You can take that to the bank.”
“You already have. She was quite an industry.”
Tess gave him a sharp glance.”Don't refer to her in the past tense.”
“I'm sorry, but she's not expected to live, is she?”
“Monica has made a career of defying expectations. Never count her out.”
“I didn't mean any offense. I just know what I've been reading in the papers. I also read that you've been using psychic guest hosts while you're here in town. Are there really that many psychics around here?”
“Oh, they've been coming from all over. With all the media coverage after Monica's attack, every two-bit sideshow performer from Atlantic City to San Jose has poked their noses around here, trying to get their mugs on our show and any news program that will have them.”
“Who do you have coming up?”
Tess's eyes narrowed.”Why do you care?”
“Just curious.”
“I can't really discuss it.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, I can't.” She shifted in her seat.”Maybe I'd better go.”
“No more work talk, I promise.”
“It's not that. I just have a lot of work waiting for me in my room.”
“I could wait there while you finish.”
She smiled. “I wouldn't get mu
ch work done, would I?”
“I guarantee that you wouldn't.”
“Tempting, but no. It's been a pleasure, Victor.” She extended her hand.
Instead of shaking her hand, Dylan lightly caressed it. “I'll see you soon, Tess. Later tonight, maybe?”
She began to draw back her hand but stopped. “That Eastern European accent of yours is going to be the death of me. Tomorrow. Okay?”
“As you wish.”
He watched as she walked across the lobby and disappeared into an elevator car.
Tess Wayland was probably a blind alley, he thought. If Monica Gaines had been deceiving him, he doubted that this woman would know anything about it. Still, he had to cover his bases.
The stakes were just too high.
Dusk had fallen by the time Joe returned to his apartment. Nikki was spending the night with a friend, and although he'd been tempted to call her home, he knew he could use the time to check out his and Nikki's rooms. But what more could he do? He'd come up empty the night before. What was he missing?
He inserted his key into the front door and it turned easily. Too easily. Had he forgotten to lock it?
He walked inside. Everything was in order. No ghostly redecorating.”Nikki?”he called out.
No Nikki.
He walked toward his bedroom. Nope.
A crash behind him.
He turned to see a pudgy figure in a long gray overcoat. The man had knocked over a row of disheson the kitchen counter drying rack. The stranger threw open the front door and bolted into the hallway.
“Stop! “Joe yelled.
He barreled through the doorway. Footsteps pounded in the dark corridor ahead.
Joe rounded another corner, then another after that. One of his neighbors was blasting a stereo, and the thunderous bass thump-thumped through the hallway.
The footsteps stopped.
Dead end, Joe thought. He hugged the wall and slid out his service revolver.
“Hands above your head and against the wall, got it? I'm a cop.”
Not a sound.
Joe made his way to the end of the hall.
He listened.
Nothing. Just that heavy bass rattling the windows.
The windows. Shit.
Joe crouched low, hit the floor with his shoulder, and rolled upright with the gun aimed down the other hallway.
Crash.His prey, little more than a shadow in the dark corridor, leapt through the window.
