"We figured if Tameka had killed her son she probably hadn't stashed his body too far away from her home in Pontiac. On your advice we started looking at abandoned houses. You had mentioned lilies, and one of the worst streets for abandoned homes in Pontiac is Lillian Street. It didn't take long to find Nathaniel; it's summer and the smell pointed the way."
I dropped my spoon into my bowl, leaving my ice cream only half eaten. I shoved it to the center of the table and grimaced. Dutch eyed my leftovers and asked, "If you're not going to eat that, would you mind if I polish it off for you?"
"Help yourself," I said flatly.
Grabbing my dish, Dutch continued. "So the coroner approximated Nathaniel's death to have occurred at least a couple of days before the alleged abduction. Cause of death was severe brain hemorrhaging, most likely from violent shaking. Tameka has a long history of owning a bad temper. We think she accidentally killed Nathaniel, then called her brother to help her hide the fact. They came up with this whole abduction scheme to divert attention from them and also to solicit sympathy money. They had a hot line for tips and donations set up almost immediately."
My stomach was turning over. I didn't want to hear any more. I put my hand up and said, "Stop," my voice barely more than a whisper.
Dutch looked at me and set the ice cream aside. "Oh, hey, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I guess I'm just used to this kind of stuff. It doesn't even phase me anymore." As he said this he took my hand and squeezed it, and when he touched me I felt a different kind of flutter in my stomach.
"Well, I'm not used to it. I'm really glad I could help you out and all, but stuff like this is too heartbreaking, you know? How do you guys do it? How do you see the worst of people and still find the energy to get out of bed every morning?"
Dutch was quiet for a long moment before he answered. "There are days, Abby, when it's really tough. I've seen things that I wish I'd never seen, but it's the choice I made when I joined the force and I made that choice because I thought I could make a difference. That's all, plain and simple—I just wanted to make a difference. Still do."
I looked up into his magical blue eyes and saw a side of him that was sweet, vulnerable and so totally accessible that I impulsively leaned forward and kissed him. I took him by surprise with that, but he went with it and I swooned a little as our kiss deepened. Just then a loud chirping noise sounded. Pulling abruptly away, Dutch reached to his belt and unhooked his cell phone. Pressing a button, he raised the phone to his ear and barked, "Rivers."
He listened for only a moment before saying, "On Maplelawn. Got it. I'll be right there."
Turning to me he smiled and said, "Duty calls."
"I understand," I said shyly.
Dutch grabbed me by the chin and kissed me long and deep again, and I thought I was going to melt into one giant puddle right there on the porch.
Breaking off the kiss, he said, "Listen, I'm sorry about the other day. That's really what I came here to tell you. We weren't sure where you were getting your information, and to be honest, we're still not. I mean, it's pretty hard to believe this stuff is for real …" His voice trailed off, and in an instant, I suddenly felt embarrassed for kissing him and assuming he had come over because he believed in me.
"Well," I said tartly, "you're right, Dutch, you really do have to go. Oh, and thanks so much for the apology. It was swell." I said this with a sneer, and Dutch looked at me, confused.
"Did I miss something?" he asked.
"You've missed a lot of things. But mostly I think you've missed several opportunities to leave. Let me assist you to the door so that you won't miss this next one." With that I began to push him out of the porch, through the kitchen and toward the front door. Of course, Dutch allowed himself to be pushed. I had a feeling given how much muscle my hands were connecting with, that if Dutch didn't want to go somewhere all he had to do was plant himself and I certainly wouldn't be able to make him budge. As we neared the door, I rounded him and stepped quickly to the lock, unfastening the bolt and throwing the door open. I stood in the doorway and made a gesture with my hand that said, "Right this way." Dutch walked out onto my front step and turned to look at me, opening his mouth to say something, but he ended up saying it to the door because I slammed it in his face. Just in case he was slow on the uptake, I clicked the bolt into place and turned out the front light. I waited twenty seconds, then peeked through the peephole. I could just make out his departing figure as he headed for his car. Oddly, as I watched him drive away, I felt deflated.
I walked back to the porch, collected the ice cream bowls from the card table and stared down at Eggy-the-traitor. He wagged his tail at me and gave me a look back that said, "Who, me?" when the phone rang. Cat, I thought. Sighing, I set the bowls in the sink, then went to the study to retrieve the cordless. Punching the talk button, I said, "Cat, I'm really tired tonight. Can we please do this tomorrow?"
A silky deep chuckle wafted through the line. "Who's Cat?" Dutch asked, obviously calling from his cell phone.
"My sister. What do you want?"
"I just want to say one last thing. I wanted to tell you that I have a cat of my own, only he's the furry four-legged kind. His name is Virgil and he came with the house I bought eight years ago. Anyway, the day before yesterday I came home and discovered that Virgil had decided to make my entire house his litter box. He peed on my floor, he peed on my rugs, he even peed on my bedspread. Normally this would have made Virgil prime pound material, but then it hit me that you told me two weeks ago this was going to happen. I checked around the neighborhood, and sure enough one of my neighbor's kids just moved back home from college and brought her tomcat with her."
There was a long moment of silence while I struggled to recall the details of Dutch's reading and come to an understanding about why he was now sharing all this with me. Finally I said, "Okaaaaaay…?"
"See, this is why I'm calling, Abby, why I came over tonight. I wanted to apologize for suspecting you were involved in Nathaniel's murder but I also wanted to clear the air and let you know that this psychic stuff is really throwing me for a loop. I'm not sure what to do with it. The problem is, I'm attracted to you."
He had my full attention.
"But I think it would be better for both of us if we just gave ourselves some time to get used to the idea of what we each do for a living, and maybe pick this up at a later date."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, at first not following what he meant by that and then feeling a pang as the realization that I was being brushed off hit home.
"Look, I have a feeling that my being a cop didn't exactly thrill you. After all, you were the one who told me over dinner that you didn't like cops."
I chewed my lip and pondered that for a while. He was right. My view of cops was perhaps just as stereotyped as Dutch's view of psychics.
"Gee, Abby, don't rush to contradict me," Dutch said with a chuckle.
"It's not that simple, Dutch," I said, trying to explain.
"Then let's keep it simple and step back for now," he answered. "Listen, I'm at the scene—gotta go," and with that there was an abrupt click and I was left listening to dead air. I set the phone back on the charger and sighed heavily. In my next lifetime I wanted to come back as a guy. They seemed to always get the upper hand.
The next morning as I was getting ready for work my phone rang again. Cat, I thought. I forced myself to answer it using my Top-o-the-morning! voice. "Good morning, Sugar, how are you?"
There was a throaty chuckle on the other end, and a baritone voice that was definitely not Cat's answered, "Very well, Muffin. How are you?"
"Don't the local police have anything better to do other than harassing the city's tax-paying citizens?" I demanded. I was still angry that he'd hung up on me the night before.
"Sorry about that," he said, clearly understanding the source of my irritation. "Listen, we need to talk. Soon. It's important."
"What about?" I asked, curious at the instant ch
ange in his voice from playful to dead serious.
"Not over the phone. When are you free?"
"Uh," I said, as I rubbed my forehead and mentally reviewed the clients I had for the day. "My last client leaves a little before four. Will that work?"
"I'll meet you at your office at four sharp."
"Okay, I guess," I said, but I suddenly realized Dutch had already hung up. The guy was definitely abrupt. Running back upstairs, I rethought my ponytail and wound my hair into a slightly more elegant twist. I told myself I wasn't doing it because I was going to see Dutch later…Liar, liar danced in my head.
At four o'clock I was seeing my last client out of my reading room when we both came up short. Dutch was sitting in my waiting room reading a magazine when we came out of the door, and as he stood up I heard my client's breath catch. He was wearing a light tweed jacket, a white dress shirt and navy blue cotton Dockers. Yeah, I thought, he is hot.
"Hello," my client, Judith, said in a wispy voice, her eyes doing the Wile E. Coyote Barroooga!
"Hello," Dutch answered, giving her a dazzling toothy grin and the full force of his midnight blues. I thought she was going to swoon,
"Okay-thank-you-Judith-really-it-was-great-seeing-you-now-you-take-care-and-we'll-see-you-later-okay?— Buh-Bye-now!" I said, as I practically shoved her out the door and closed it quickly behind her. Sometimes, I have no tact.
"So," I said, spinning around. "What's this all about?"
"Is there someplace we can sit?"
Uh-oh. Sounded serious. "Sure. Come on in," I said, waving him into my reading room.
We sat facing each other, and Dutch reached into his jacket pocket, extracted a photograph and handed it to me. I looked at it closely. Two young women, both with shoulder-length chestnut hair and beautiful brown eyes, beamed back at me. I sighed, my eyes pinching a little in sadness. "These women are both dead," I said and handed the picture back to Dutch.
I could tell by his startled expression that he hadn't expected that, so I said by way of explanation, "It's a talent."
"Weird talent to have, Abby," he said, looking at me with appraising eyes.
I smiled uncomfortably and shifted in my chair. Directing attention back to the photo, I asked, "Who are they anyway?"
"You don't recognize one of them?" he asked, the photo still held loosely in his hand.
I took the photo back and looked more closely. One of the women looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her. She could have been a client, but I didn't want to suggest this after the Nathaniel Davies fiasco. I decided to play it non-committal. "I'm not sure…"
Dutch was watching my expression closely. I had to concentrate on not giving in to the temptation to squirm. Finally he said, "They are Allison and Alyssa Pierce."
Okay, so he wasn't going to give me anything to go on. Suddenly something popped into my head. "Allison Pierce," I said softly and turned my memory banks up to high. "Oh! Now I remember. I read Allison a couple of weeks ago. In fact, she called me a few days ago because she wanted to come in for another reading."
"She called you last week?"
"Yeah," I said, thinking back. "It was Sunday afternoon. I remember because I went out to dinner with my best friend that night. I don't think I was very nice to Allison when she called." Guilt, guilt, guilt…
"Do you remember what you talked about with her?"
"She wanted to schedule another reading with me. She said she had unanswered questions and wanted to come in for another session."
"And what did you say?" Dutch asked.
I was growing more and more uncomfortable. "I have this hard-and-fast rule, that. I won't read someone more than twice a year because people can base their whole lives on what a psychic tells them and it's just not a good idea, you know?"
Dutch said nothing, waiting out my confession. Nervously I continued. "So I told her I couldn't fit her in this early but that I could schedule her for January if she wanted to come back then."
"Did she tell you what her questions were?" Dutch asked.
"No … I guess I didn't ask. The truth is I feel terrible that I was so abrupt with her. I guess I was in a pissy mood and wasn't feeling very open. She just caught me at a bad time."
"I see."
"How did she die?" I asked, wanting to move on with the conversation.
"She was murdered, Abby."
"Oh my God!"
"That was the 911 page I got while I was at your house last night. A neighbor claims that she heard screaming coming from Allison's house, but she waited an hour to call the police."
"What? Why did she wait so long?" I asked, incredulous.
"No one wants to get involved anymore. Anyway, when we got there we found Allison, beaten to a bloody pulp, with her throat slashed. The house looked like a tornado'd hit it. Early this morning the coroner found this hidden in her underwear," Dutch said, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag. Inside it was a cassette tape that was all too familiar to me—it was identical to the ones I gave to my clients after each session. A few years ago I'd gotten savvy and had a printing company emblazon both the tapes and the cassette cases with my professional information. My name and my business address were typed neatly across the top of the cassette, including a blank space for the date of the reading.
"Whoa," I said, my mind reeling.
Dutch looked at my credenza, which held dozens of similar blank copies, all neatly stacked in their plastic cassette cases. "Abby, I have to ask you if this tape also came with a cassette case."
I nodded and explained, "Yes, of course. I always put the cassette back in its case and give it to the client. Why?"
"We found only the tape, Abby. The case is missing."
I felt a rush of adrenaline spike through my bloodstream. "What are you saying, Dutch? This makes no sense. Why would someone take the case and not the cassette? Do you think Allison's killer has some sort of connection to me?"
"We don't know. It's just very strange that an ex-client of yours turns up with her throat slashed and hidden in her underwear is a cassette tape of a reading she had with you. Her house gets ransacked and we can't find the cassette case. The brutality of the crime suggests that this wasn't a robbery gone bad; it tells us that the killer knew Allison and hated her. It also suggests he was looking for something. From listening to the tape we know that you warned her about staying away from a dark-haired man. Now I was with you last night, and I know that you couldn't have committed the crime, but what is it about you that connects Allison to her killer? What I'm saying is, why would Allison take the precaution of hiding the tape of her reading in her underwear?"
I looked at Dutch closely; if his eyes weren't accusing then they were damn close. I was still reeling from the shock that Allison was dead, and I didn't really know how to respond. "What do you want from me, Dutch?" I asked wearily.
"You say you're good at knowing things that most people don't. What can you tell me about who killed Allison?"
I blinked several times at him. What did he think I knew? Did he think I had something to do with her murder? I shook my head and said, "I still don't know what you're asking me. I barely knew this woman. I don't even remember her reading. Really, I wish I could but so many of my readings blend together that I can't recall what I said to her."
Dutch refused to offer me an out. He simply continued to stare at me, and the uncomfortable silence stretched out between us.
Finally he tucked the Baggie with the tape back into his jacket pocket and reached around to another pocket, extracting another cassette tape. This he handed to me and said, "Okay, Abby. Here's a dubbed copy of the reading you gave Allison. I hope you'll listen to it and call me if you can think of anything that jogs your memory. Oh, and because we're not sure if her killer has the cassette case or not, I want you to be very careful around here. Always lock your door, never open your front door without knowing who's on the other side and call me if anything even remotely strange happens." With
that he stood up, handed me his card and strode out.
I locked the door behind him and walked back to my inner office. There I paced the floor for a while, tapping my finger against my lips in a sort of daze. I couldn't shake my feelings of guilt. What had Allison wanted to ask me? What was it I could have answered for her? Would I have seen this coming? Would she have listened to me?
My attention fell to my desktop and the tape Dutch had left with me resting on the corner. I had two choices: I could let the police figure out who murdered Allison Pierce and keep my nose out of it, thus avoiding any further entanglement and possible finger-pointing in my direction. Or I could quietly resign myself to assisting in whatever way my instincts allowed. After all, I had an invaluable, highly refined tool at my disposal: my intuition. Hadn't it been instrumental in leading the police directly to little Nathaniel's murderer?
I had to admit that assisting with that investigation had given my ego a definite lift. It felt damn good to use my gift in a way that was…well, important and meaningful. It certainly beat telling some housewife that she needed to be more careful when she was sneaking out of the house to cheat on her husband.
I picked up the cassette tape and turned it over a few times. I came clean with myself: I needed this. I needed to help solve this case to absolve my feelings of guilt over not being there for Allison when she'd called, and also to send a message to skeptics like Dutch that I wasn't some smoke-and-mirrors performer, but a legitimate, albeit quirky, professional. I paced my argument back and forth in front of my desk, and after wearing a tread in the carpet and cementing my decision to help in any way I could, I headed home.
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Page 9