by Rysa Walker
I take advantage of his momentary distraction to pull Deo back so we’re out of earshot. “Did you get the money out of my old sneakers?”
“Yeah. Three hundred sixteen bucks, and change. Plus the pennies in the sock if you can get it back from Officer Friendly.”
“Hurry up!” Daniel holds the door open, clearly annoyed that we’re making him wait. At first I think it’s just him being his usual pissy self. But a worried frown settles onto his forehead as his eyes scan the parking lot behind us. Is he looking for Aaron? Or does he think someone followed us?
The foyer is dim, lit only by pale-yellow sconces near the doorways. We take the stairs up to the second floor. Quinn Investigative Services is the only office with any sign of life. The other two, which belong to a podiatrist and a dermatologist, are dark. Given that it’s creeping up on ten o’clock, they’ve probably been closed for hours.
Daniel raps once on the door and then opens it to reveal a small reception area. An older man is hunched over a corner workstation, typing something on one of those touchscreen keyboards. He uses only two fingers, hunt-and-peck style. The back of his head sports a bald spot roughly the size of a soup bowl, framed by hair that’s mostly salt with only a dash of pepper.
“Aaron’s not here yet?” Daniel asks.
The old man doesn’t say anything, just holds up a hand in Daniel’s direction, indicating for us to wait until he finishes the word or sentence or whatever.
Even with my mental wall in place, I can still pick up a hint of Molly’s emotions. This is Sam, who she’s known forever. She’s happy to see him. She trusts him.
Her reaction makes me relax a bit. Admittedly, it probably shouldn’t, but it is what it is.
The desk is too small for Sam’s large frame, and when he turns to face us, he bangs his knee against one of the metal supports. He curses under his breath as he rubs his knee. “Don’t know why I let your mom talk me into this furniture. They make these things for damn midgets. And your brother will be here in a few minutes. Had to make a stop.”
“Fine.” Daniel huffs, then heads toward one of the two doors at the back of the suite, separated by a little kitchen alcove. “I need to make some calls anyway.”
Sam gives an almost identical huff as Daniel closes the door behind him.
“You’re Anna. I’m guessing this is Deo?”
Deo nods.
“You’ve probably guessed I’m Sam Quinn, grandfather to the rude young man who left without bothering to introduce us, although strictly speaking it doesn’t appear to have been necessary. My other two grandchildren are slightly better behaved, at least most of the time. Seems the two of you have had a bit of excitement today.” He motions to the sofa on the opposite wall, which, much like the desk, was clearly chosen for its sleek styling and not comfort.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Sam gets us water from the fridge and chats amiably about a couple of sports teams that Deo and I don’t follow. We both make polite noises, and Deo adds a comment about some player that must make sense because Sam nods enthusiastically and takes off on a conversational track that delves much deeper than Deo’s casual acquaintance with the Baltimore Ravens.
“Have you heard anything more about Mr. Porter?” I ask. It’s partly to rescue Deo, but also because I want to know, and even if Molly can’t press the issue from behind my wall, I’m pretty sure she wants to know, too.
“Yeah. He was awake for the last twenty minutes or so before I left the hospital. Or rather before Ella—that’s his sister—ran me off, telling me he needed his rest. He’s gonna be fine. I’m guessing they’ll release him tomorrow or the next day. Bullet lodged in his shoulder, but the surgery went well and he didn’t lose much blood thanks to Aaron’s—” He cuts off, clearing his throat.
“It’s okay. Aaron told me he gets . . . premonitions about that kind of thing.”
Deo gives me a surprised look, obviously wondering why I didn’t tell him earlier.
But I don’t have time to explain, because Sam continues, “Yeah, well, Daniel would probably say Aaron had a lucky guess, but I don’t question it when he gets one of those twinges. Neither does his mom. Last time we didn’t listen, my only son ended up dead a few days later.”
Based on what Aaron said earlier, I think Sam is being a little hard on himself. But I just give him a sympathetic smile.
“I tried to tell Jerome he was in danger,” he says, “but that man is as stubborn as a damn mule. He wants firsthand evidence, and that’s kind of hard to produce with Aaron’s flashes.”
Sam looks at me, then says, “When Jerome came out of surgery, Ella was convinced the poor man was crazy, because he kept asking if Molly was okay. Once he was a little more coherent and he and I got a moment alone, the first thing he did was ask about you. He saw them shooting in your direction, saw you jump into a car, but didn’t recognize it as Aaron’s. All I can say is that you managed quite an impressive turnaround. When I spoke to Jerome yesterday, I think he was half tempted to shoot you himself, and me and Aaron telling him he should keep an open mind only made him madder. Whatever you did today seems to have made a believer out of him. He swears he was talkin’ to Molly. Of course he followed that up by sayin’ he must be losin’ his damn mind.”
“So . . . you actually let Molly out?” Deo wasn’t exactly keen on the idea, even with Kelsey there.
“Yes. It wasn’t easy on either of us. She didn’t know her grandmother had died and she was worried about Porter, and I think there was a little part of her that was tempted to—”
“Stay. Yeah. That’s exactly what I told you. I saw your eyes that day at the piano. They weren’t . . . you.”
I raise my eyebrows, hoping to indicate that this conversation is one we should have later when we’re alone, even though I’m well aware that a simple look may not stop him. When Deo is locked on to a topic, it’s like he’s worried the question or comment he’s holding in is going to chew his tongue off if he doesn’t let it out.
Thankfully, the front door opens and Deo’s focus shifts. He sniffs the air a second before I catch the scent of fried chicken that we smelled earlier in the parking lot.
“I haven’t eaten,” Aaron says, nodding down at the large white bag in his hands. “And I’m guessing Daniel didn’t feed you on the way over, because . . . well, because he’s Daniel . . . so I bought extra. Do we have plates in the kitchen, Sam?”
When Aaron and Sam go off in search of utensils, Deo says, “The older brother is a pain in the ass. But this one, I could learn to like.”
The chicken and biscuits are nearly gone when Daniel comes out of the back office. He snags the last drumstick and leans against the desk as he finishes it. I’m not really sure that desk could hold my weight, let alone Daniel’s, and I get a quick mental picture of him on the floor, surrounded by rubble, wearing the same expression he wore in Molly’s memory. It’s an appealing thought, especially when I remember the way he yanked me back into the townhouse earlier this evening.
But then I remember his eyes as he scanned the parking lot a few minutes ago. He was worried, and I don’t think it was simply about his own well-being.
Sam scoops the paper plates into the empty bag. “You called this meeting, Danny Boy, so let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”
Daniel’s nose wrinkles slightly at the nickname. “Sure thing, Popsy.” Sam narrows his eyes and Daniel laughs. “I didn’t start it. And if Taylor can call you that, why can’t I? Anyway, I headed over to pick up Deo like Aaron asked, but then I ran into Baker. He’d heard about Porter getting shot, and Porter had talked to him about the situation with Anna. I don’t think that would have been enough for him to haul the two of them downtown for questioning, but the captain got a request from the trafficking task force at DHS.” He glances over at me and Deo, and adds, “Homeland Security.”
“Obviously,” Deo mutters under his breath, pretty much echoing my thoughts.
“
Why would any of this be on the DHS radar?” Aaron asks, and then makes a face like he’s answered his own question. “The post Porter put on that neighborhood-watch bulletin board. The one that mentioned Lucas and Anna.”
“Porter put my name in a post with a murder suspect?”
“Not exactly.” Aaron pulls a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Here. You can read it for yourself.”
I unfold the paper and see screencaps from two websites. One appears to be from the Metropolitan Police site and is asking for information on a person of interest who was seen around National Place mall during the week I was trying to contact Porter at work. The second looks like a community-watch board, dated four days ago:
Seeking information about a juvenile female, Caucasian, late teens. May be contacting next of kin of murder victims in the DC area claiming to be in psychic contact with the deceased. Possible link to Franco Lucas, suspect in the killing of two DC residents in 2016. If you have any information, please contact J. Porter at 202-555-8763.
I can feel Molly protesting behind the wall. It echoes in my head, like someone’s banging a hammer a few doors down. I doubt she’s pleased with the things I’m thinking about her beloved Pa right now, and at this point, I’m glad I can’t hear her. I’m way too pissed to take her feelings into account, and I don’t want to sit here with my mouth hanging open while she argues that he’s really not so bad once you get to know him.
Deo is reading the page over my shoulder. “Is there a delay posting on this site?”
“I doubt it,” Daniel says. “They monitor the ones connected to the department, but this one is privately run. I had to comb through half a dozen spam messages to find it. Why?”
“It’s just . . .” Deo shrugs. “Porter’s known Anna’s name for more than a week now.”
“Could be he didn’t want to use it because she’s a minor,” Sam suggests. “Or maybe this is a rerun of an earlier posting and he forgot to—”
More banging from Molly.
Shut the hell up! I can’t focus on what he’s saying.
There’s one more defiant whack and then silence.
Daniel is talking now. “. . . wasn’t just what Porter posted. Another body turned up, this time up in New Hampshire. Young girl, probably no more than sixteen, with the same markings as the other five victims they’ve located.”
Aaron and Sam exchange a look, then they both look back at Daniel. I get the feeling they’re trying to decide how much they can say in front of me and Deo. They shouldn’t worry. I’m not following half of what they’re saying anyway, and judging from Deo’s expression, I’m not the only one. I mean, I got the part about there being another victim, but now they’ve moved on to talking about police procedures at the MPD and liaisons with various government agencies. Daniel says Dacia’s card was from Senator Cregg’s office, but he’d also seen her at some place called Decathlon where he interviewed a while back.
And between all of this, Molly’s hammer keeps whacking away every few minutes. I think she’d be pounding nonstop, if not for the fact that she wants to hear what they’re saying and, if I can’t hear it, neither can she.
“So does the Metro Police Department throw police procedure out the window anytime a Senate staffer walks in and asks to speak to suspects?” Aaron asks, clearly skeptical. “Or do you think it’s her government contractor connections with Decathlon?”
“She waltzed in like she was there on the authority of the president—and given the media attention Cregg’s campaign has been getting, that may well be the case a year from now. And Cregg is on both the Homeland Security and Senate Intelligence Committees. I couldn’t get much out of the front desk, but they did say Cregg’s request was backed up by one from the CIA. The NCS to be precise.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m swimming in a bowl of alphabet soup. “Okay, CIA I get. What’s the other one?”
“NCS. National Clandestine Service. A sub-unit of the CIA,” Aaron says. “They’ve been around in some form since the agency was created, but they got a name change to NCS after September 11. They deal with HUMINT . . . sorry, human intelligence collection. Espionage, interrogation, that sort of thing.”
“So . . .” Deo pauses for a minute, like he’s trying to piece something together, then points to Sam and Aaron. “You two are private investigators, right? I googled you when Anna called me earlier, and your website says you mostly help get evidence for people with cheating spouses. How come you know so much about the CIA?”
“Kind of a hobby,” Sam says, brushing the question aside before turning back to Daniel. “But why is the CIA all of a sudden interested in Lucas? FBI, yeah. But the CIA doesn’t have anything to do with law enforcement, even things that cross state borders like Molly’s . . .” He trails off, glancing over at Deo and me, probably wondering how much we know.
“I don’t think they’re interested in Lucas. Did she ask you anything about him, Anna?”
I think back through the conversation. “No. She didn’t mention him at all. She mentioned Molly, but only in connection to my contacting Porter.”
“Tell them what you told me on the drive over,” Daniel says.
I give them an overview of the conversation, including the strange sensation. “As crazy as it sounds, she was trying to scan me. To pull something from my mind. And I think she actually did do that, right at the beginning, because she repeated what I’d been thinking almost verbatim.”
Aaron frowns. “So if she got inside your head, she knows about Molly.”
“She didn’t get very far. I’ve spent hundreds of hours learning to block off that side of my mind. Usually, it’s to keep . . .”
I pause and glance down at my lap. Talking about these things in front of other people is alien to my very nature. Today alone, I’ve doubled the number of people who know my secrets.
When I look up, Aaron catches my expression and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. This is a safe zone. You already know that I believe you. Sam has talked to Porter and to me, so he’s not going to give you any flak. Daniel might think you’re full of crap, but he thinks I am too, so—”
“You know, Aaron, I’m sick of you putting words into my mouth. I’ve never once said I thought you were full of crap. What I said is that you’re a damn fool for giving anyone even the slightest reason to think that you’re some kind of psychic wonder boy. What was the last thing Dad said to you?”
Aaron sucks in a breath and tightens his fist. I don’t know why the question made him so angry, but judging from his narrowed eyes, things are about to get nasty.
I wonder if Aaron’s spidey sense tingles when he’s the one about to go medieval?
Sam sticks his two index fingers into his mouth and produces a shrill whistle. “Cut it. Both of you. Anna was talking.”
I wait a few seconds, and when Aaron’s face resumes something close to its original shade, I continue. “I was saying that the walls are usually to help me keep control of any hitchers I’m carrying around in my head. But this time, it helped me keep this Badea woman from learning about Molly. I’m doing my best to keep the barrier up, because I think she can do it from a distance. I had that same odd tingling sensation right before we left for the police station. In the car with Daniel, too.”
Sam’s head jerks back slightly and he stares at Daniel. “Go on.”
“There’s not much else to tell. She said she worked for someone who was interested in my talents, and I kept denying that I had any talents for them to be interested in. She was angry when she left. Frustrated. But”—I give Deo an apologetic smile—“if she got that information from Deo, then my blocking her out may not have done much good.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Aaron says. “It really depends on whether her goal was to find out what you knew about Molly or to find out something Molly knew.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Daniel asks. “I mean, if she’s in your head, then . . .”
“I can’t access all of Molly�
�s memories yet. She can tell me things, but I don’t really have control until she moves on.”
Aaron turns toward Daniel, and though there’s still a bit of residual anger beneath the surface, he takes a breath and makes a visible effort to relax. “Have you searched online to see what you can find out about Badea? I mean, aside from what you learned at the station.”
“No,” Daniel says. “Haven’t really had time.”
Aaron slides his chair behind the desk. He seems much more at ease there than his grandfather was, so I’m guessing that’s his usual workstation.
“Spelling?” he asks.
“B-a-d-e-a,” Daniel says. “She called herself Dacia, but on the card, her full name was D-a-c-i-a-n-a.”
And Molly goes completely batshit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Before, Molly’s protests felt like a hammer in my head. Now, they’re more like a wrecking ball.
I lean back against the couch cushions and squeeze my eyes shut.
Molly, you heard what I said. I can’t let you out yet. She might—
“Anna? You okay?”
Deo is tugging on my arm. I glance around and everyone else is watching me, too. I wish I could sink through the floor, but Molly’s not letting up.
“It’s Molly. She wants to tell me something, but that would mean I have to let the wall down. And I’m positive I felt something before we went to the police station, so this Badea woman must be able to—”
“No.” Sam glances at Daniel again. “I don’t know who this woman is exactly, but I find it hard to believe she can do anything like that from a distance. I’ve made a study of this kind of thing . . . given the family tendencies. Even with clairvoyants—like people who do remote viewings—most need to touch something in order to read it. Or at least be really damn close by.” He fades off, then says to Daniel, “Why don’t you take a walk around the building? See if anything looks suspicious.”
Daniel and Sam exchange another one of their cryptic looks. I’m starting to wonder whether the two of them are trading psychic messages back and forth, because Sam tells him, “Just do what I asked. I’m not going to say anything. Aaron can go with you if you’re a scaredy-cat.”