Death Perception

by Victoria Laurie

  Dutch smiled wryly. ‘‘Since college, so about fourteen years.’’ I noticed that he was careful to leave out the fact that he was still in law enforcement, albeit a different branch now.

  ‘‘Why’d you leave?’’ Brosseau wanted to know.

  ‘‘Burnout,’’ Dutch said, and Brosseau nodded like that one word said it all. Then he turned his attention to me.

  ‘‘What’s your success rate?’’ he wanted to know.

  ‘‘Not bad,’’ I said, feeling pressured.

  ‘‘Don’t let her fool you, Detective. She’s terrific.’’

  ‘‘Call me Bob,’’ he said, and right before our eyes he seemed to warm up to both of us. ‘‘Now, getting back to your cousin, Mr. Rivers. I’m assuming you’ll want to see the crime scene?’’

  ‘‘That would be great,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘And if you could keep me in the loop with any witness testimony or lab evidence you come across, I’d really appreciate it.’’

  ‘‘We’re a little short on both, I’m afraid,’’ Bob said with a sigh. ‘‘Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything. Typical reaction considering where the car was found.’’

  ‘‘Where was the car found?’’ I asked. I hate being out of the loop.

  ‘‘The Pussy Palace,’’ Bob said. ‘‘It’s a seedy strip club on the edge of town.’’

  ‘‘Cute name,’’ I said, making a face.

  ‘‘Pretty much sums up the type of establishment,’’ Dutch said reasonably. ‘‘Detective, my cousin’s wife told me that a call came in from the manager around five a.m. yesterday. As I recall, one of the busboys was takingthe trash out when he saw the limo Chase was driving parked in the alley behind the club with the lights on and some blood on the pavement?’’

  ‘‘Yep,’’ said Bob. ‘‘The Dumpster’s down the alley, about fifty yards from the club, and to their credit, the joint was cited for excessive noise a few years back and since then they’ve improved their soundproofing to the point where it wouldn’t be unusual for them not to hear a commotion—or gunshots—from fifty yards outside the club.’’

  ‘‘Whose blood was on the pavement?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘The sample was sent to the lab for DNA analysis.

  Your cousin’s wife provided Chase’s comb for us, and we collected Delgado’s toothbrush from his wife, but I can tell you that the preliminary blood test identifies the blood as AB positive.’’

  I saw Dutch go very still and his face became even whiter under the fluorescent lights. ‘‘What?’’ I asked him.

  ‘‘That’s Chase’s blood type,’’ he whispered.

  Brosseau nodded. ‘‘Mr. Delgado is type O positive.’’

  ‘‘So they found a little blood,’’ I said reasonably. ‘‘Chase could have been nicked, or shot in the toe.’’

  Bob looked down at his desk and shuffled papers around. ‘‘Yeah, about that,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Let me see the crime-scene photos,’’ Dutch said quietly.

  Brosseau glanced up at him and my heart gave a pang. By the look on his face, the photos were bad. Reluctantly, Brosseau handed them over and Dutch pulled them out of the large manila envelope and began sorting through them. I inched my chair over to him and put a hand on his arm while looking over his shoulder.

  The first few pictures were of the front of the limo parked near a Dumpster in the back of an alley. In the photo the car’s lights were still on and two of the doors—the driver’s side and the passenger side—were open.

  Another series of photos showed bullet holes riddling the car doors and the windshield. As Dutch flipped to the next series, I felt him tense. The interior of the car on the driver’s side was pooled with blood, so much so that I was amazed Chase could still be alive, yet my radar insisted that he was.

  ‘‘He’s not dead,’’ I whispered to Dutch, looking at him. His face was set, firm, and only the thin line of his lips and the haunted look in his eyes hinted that he was moved by the photos. ‘‘We’ll find him, Dutch,’’ I insisted. ‘‘We will.’’

  He inhaled deeply and gave me a little nudge with his shoulder. Then he flipped through the rest of the photos and handed them to Brosseau. ‘‘I’d like to see the car if I can,’’ he said to Brosseau.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Bob said easily. ‘‘The CSI guys should be done with their evidence collection in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’ll get you in to see it as soon as it’s clear.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Bob, I appreciate it,’’ Dutch said warmly. ‘‘In the meantime, can you take us to the alley?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Brosseau said, putting the photos away and standing up. ‘‘It’s not far from here.’’

  * * *

  We took the detective’s car and drove the few miles to the seedier side of town, parking next to an adult bookstore and a gun shop. ‘‘Nice,’’ I said, taking in the neighborhood.

  ‘‘The strip joint’s across the street,’’ Brosseau said. ‘‘Come on, I’ll take you round back.’’

  We got out of the car and waited for a car to pass before we walked across the street. The Pussy Palace was an odd rendering of purple-coated chrome and black-tinted glass. A bright neon yellow castle with a green neon cat sitting demurely on one turret hovered over the entrance. From inside, the thump, thump, thump of a bass oozed through the soundproofing.

  ‘‘Around here,’’ Brosseau said as he motioned us away from the front of the strip joint into a back alley. Yellow crime-scene tape ran between a Dumpster at the far end and a telephone pole to the side of the building. A third strip connected the triangle from the pole to a hook on the far wall of the building.

  While Brosseau stood to one side, Dutch approached the tape warily, his eyes darting around the scene looking at the stains on the dirty cracked concrete and small piles of broken windshield that dotted the area within the tape.

  I moved a few steps behind him, my eyes darting too. I wasn’t sure what to look for, but maybe a gum wrapper or a missed shell casing would reveal a big clue. ‘‘You said your CSI team is processing the car?’’ Dutch asked, making sure.

  ‘‘They’re on it, Mr. Rivers,’’ Brosseau said.

  ‘‘Have you identified the weapon yet?’’ Dutch asked, glancing away from the scene to Brosseau.

  ‘‘Based on the shell casings, two firearms were used. A Glock and a semiautomatic.’’

  ‘‘There were two shooters?’’ Dutch asked.

  ‘‘As far as our investigation can tell, yes.’’

  ‘‘What model Glock?’’

  ‘‘Nine-mil.’’

  Dutch squatted and poked at the small piles of glass on the ground. ‘‘Where were the casings found for the Glock?’’

  ‘‘Both inside and outside the car,’’ Brosseau said. ‘‘We’re still piecing the sequence of events together.’’

  The scowl on Dutch’s face deepened. ‘‘What?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Chase carried a Glock,’’ he said. ‘‘So either he got off a few rounds, or his gun was taken from him and he was shot with it.’’

  ‘‘He’s still alive, Dutch,’’ I repeated, and I realized this had become a little mantra for us.

  Dutch nodded and stood up. Looking at me, he pointed to my head and said, ‘‘That thing on?’’

  I smiled. ‘‘It is now.’’ Moving closer to the crime-scene tape, I closed my eyes and focused. Bringing in my crew for some support, I began to feel out the energy surrounding us and noticed right away that the scene felt heavily imprinted.

  When events that have monumental importance take place, they can leave a sort of imprint or stain on their surroundings that is detectable only with the right equipment—like a psychic’s radar. It’s almost as if we’re able to detect the nature of the event—a violent act like murder feels chaotic and heavy and confusing, whereas say, a coronation for a king would feel stately and formal and orderly.

  What I was feeling now was definitely on the chaotic side. ‘‘Blach,’�
�� I said as I felt the energy up and down the alley. ‘‘A lot of stuff happened here.’’

  ‘‘Can you be more specific?’’ Dutch asked gently.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I raised my arms and literally felt the energy out with my fingertips. ‘‘It started over there,’’ I said, pointing in what I knew was the direction of the door leading from the strip club. ‘‘I have a sense of shouting, and chaos, and something familiar.’’

  ‘‘What’s familiar?’’ Dutch said.

  I didn’t answer him right away—something in my head was trying to clear itself into a coherent thought and my crew was trying to help me get there. Start with family finally swirled around in my head and my eyes opened. ‘‘We need to look at Delgado’s family,’’ I said. ‘‘My crew said to start with them.’’

  Dutch looked to Brosseau. ‘‘Have you been in contact with Delgado’s family?’’ he asked.

  The detective blanched and his own lips pulled down in a deep scowl. ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘They were all broken up over it.’’

  ‘‘It can be hard to hear that your loved one is missing,’’ I said, ‘‘especially under these circumstances.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Brosseau said, shaking his head. ‘‘You don’t understand. I was being sarcastic. The only question Delgado’s wife asked me was if he was dead. When I said I didn’t know, she said I shouldn’t call back until I did.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like trouble in paradise,’’ Dutch said.

  ‘‘I found a separation agreement filed last week on the happy couple. We’re keeping a file on her as a person of interest.’’

  ‘‘I heard from my cousin’s wife that he’d mentioned a trip out of country. Have you guys tracked Delgado’s whereabouts from last week?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, Mrs. Rivers mentioned that to me on the phone when I talked with her yesterday, and to answer your question, no, we’ve looked into Delgado’s flight plans and nothing comes up for out of the U.S.’’

  I closed my eyes again and trained my radar on the alley. It was rife with violence and I squirmed against that negative energy. The ether was so thick with chaos that I stepped back a few paces to gain a better perspective. It was then that I turned a bit to my right, which faced farther down the alley, and I noticed the violence seemed to permeate down there too.

  I opened my eyes and continued to hold my hands out in front of me as I walked down the alley. For a very long stretch past where the limo was parked, I was still sensing that awful energy, and I couldn’t figure out why.

  I closed my eyes again and called out mentally to my crew. What’s going on here? I asked. Why am I picking up so much violence?

  Their answer surprised me. My mind’s eye filled with the scene of an endless desert and a name drifted into my mind. Death Valley.

  I opened my eyes and squinted down the length of the alley. I now realized that what I was picking up wasn’t just the one incident involving Dutch’s cousin, but layers of different events that took place here, and I knew, without a doubt, that this alley had seen its fair share of dead bodies.

  ‘‘Abs?’’ Dutch said, and I realized he was standing right behind me.

  ‘‘They’re calling this Death Valley,’’ I said, waving my hand up and down the length of the street. ‘‘My radar is saying it’s claimed a lot of lives.’’

  There was an audible gasp off to my left, and I noticed that Brosseau had come up to me with Dutch. ‘‘Whoa,’’ he said. ‘‘Man, you’re good!’’

  ‘‘We’re in Death Valley?’’ I asked. ‘‘I thought that was west of here.’’

  ‘‘It is, but around here we call this Death Alley. The Pussy Palace has been around for a long time. It was once owned by one of the more famous mob bosses to run most of Vegas in the seventies. Back then, this alley was used to dump the mob’s garbage, or anyone who stepped out of line or didn’t pay up.’’

  I took in a deep breath and turned to my boyfriend. ‘‘In that case, sweetie, I don’t think I can get a clear picture of what happened. There are way too many layers here, and the closer I get to the limo, the more chaotic it is.’’

  ‘‘Lots of people were dumped in that Dumpster,’’ Brosseau said. ‘‘It doesn’t surprise me that’s where you’re getting the strongest energy.’’

  I noticed that Dutch had gone quite pale and clammy again, and one of his arms was wrapped around his stomach protectively. ‘‘Okay,’’ he said, blinking his eyes as if he was struggling to focus.

  ‘‘You okay?’’ I asked, stepping toward him and reaching for his arm.

  ‘‘Nauseous,’’ he said. ‘‘I think I need to sit down.’’

  ‘‘Is he sick?’’ Brosseau asked.

  ‘‘He’s had a touch of food poisoning,’’ I said, putting Dutch’s free arm over my shoulders and guiding him toward the car. ‘‘I think we need to get him back to the hotel for a rest.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be fine,’’ Dutch said, but I could tell he was struggling to walk.

  ‘‘You need to lie down, my friend. We’ll get back to work on this when you’ve had a chance to get some sleep and maybe something to settle your stomach,’’ I said.

  Brosseau drove us back to our car at the police station and we took our leave. ‘‘We’ll be in touch,’’ I said as I helped Dutch over to our car.

  ‘‘I’ll be working here until five,’’ he said. ‘‘Unless we find something, and I’ll call you if we do.’’

  * * *

  I drove Dutch back to the hotel using the car’s navigation system. Even with the electronic voice telling me where to go, it was a stressful ride because of how bad Dutch looked. A few times he even groaned as if he was in pain.

  ‘‘Should I take you to the hospital?’’ I asked. He shook his head no. ‘‘Sweetie, you look bad,’’ I said gently. ‘‘Maybe you should see the doctor.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be fine,’’ he said, and I could tell it took effort for him to talk.

  I debated for a bit about what to do. My radar suggested a doctor was just the ticket, but ultimately I gave in and drove back to the hotel because I knew that Dutch really wanted to focus on finding his cousin and I didn’t want to further upset him by taking a detour for several hours in the emergency room.

  And it was that small decision to route us to the hotel instead of the hospital or a clinic that ultimately was our entire undoing.

  Chapter Three

  Dutch got straight under the covers the moment we were back in our room. I ran water on a washcloth and made him a compress, which brought him only the barest of relief. He complained of a vicious headache and by the feel of his forehead I knew he was running a fever. ‘‘Are you sure I can’t call a doctor?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be fine, Abs,’’ he said, and I knew he was tired of me asking him questions. ‘‘I just need some sleep.’’

  Thankfully, he nodded off a little later, but his body continued to sweat and battle the bacteria that must have entered his system. Twice he woke up and bolted for the bathroom. All I could do was sit on the king-sized bed and stress about how bad he looked and feel guilty about not sniffing the chicken before I mixed up the salad.

  * * *

  I dozed most of the afternoon myself, as I really hadn’t slept at all in well over twenty-four hours. Around three p.m. Vegas time, I rubbed my scratchy, tired eyes and got out of bed. Dutch was sleeping and when I checked his forehead, I was relieved to see that his fever had broken.

  I got him a large glass of water and put it on his nightstand along with some crackers I got from the vending machine around the corner from our room. I didn’t know if he’d have an appetite when he woke up, but I knew he’d have to put a little something in his system eventually.

  After making sure he was taken care of, I headed out of the bedroom in our suite and into the sitting room, carrying my backpack. Sitting down at the table, I checked my watch: quarter after three, which made it quarter after six Eastern time. I pulled out my appointment calendar and flipp
ed to the current date. I’d been able to reschedule all my clients for the rest of the week save three that I had penciled in for this evening. I trailed my finger down the list of the three names and phone numbers before I wrote them down on separate three-by-five cards. Then I laid my hands over them and closed my eyes.

  Although I’m used to flipping my radar on and off like a switch, to do a proper reading, I find that some meditation and protection exercises are a must. The meditation connects me to my crew—those spirit guides assigned to yours truly to help me make sense of the unknown—and protection energy so that no nastiness either attaches itself to me or manages to get through while I’m delivering my messages.

  At exactly three thirty, I opened my eyes again, took a deep breath, and dialed the number of my first client.

  ‘‘Hi, Melody, it’s Abby Cooper calling,’’ I said when she answered the phone.

  ‘‘Hi!’’ she said, her voice squeaky and excited. ‘‘I’m so excited about this,’’ she added. ‘‘And a bit nervous.’’

  I smiled. ‘‘No worries,’’ I said. ‘‘Most people are nervous before a session. Your job is to sit back and let me do most of the talking for the first half of the reading. After I’m done, I’ll turn it over to you, and you can ask me questions if you have them. But if you could rememberto keep them as specific as possible, that would be fantastic.’’

  ‘‘Sure, sure,’’ she said, and after I focused on her energy for a bit, I began the session.

  ‘‘Okay, Melody, to start with, they’re showing me some paperwork, and they’re saying there is something legal and binding about this paperwork. I feel like you’re heavily involved with this, almost like you’re surrounded by legal paperwork. Does this make sense to you?’’

  Melody giggled. ‘‘I’m a legal secretary.’’

  ‘‘Great, I’m on the right track. Regarding this paperwork, they are making me feel like it’s coming from two different sources.’’

  ‘‘I report to two partners,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Perfect. Is one of those partners getting ready to retire?’’