I blinked. “Dude. Do you know what time it is?”
Oscar lifted his wrist and stared at his watch. “Seven forty-three.” He then looked back at me as if expecting me to be grateful for the info.
“What are you doing here?”
Oscar held up his phone. “I drove by this house this morning. It had a For Sale sign.”
I stared at the image, then back up to Oscar. “And?”
“And it’s in my neighborhood. Maybe I should get it.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” I sighed, opening the door all the way and waving him inside.
Dutch leaned out from the kitchen and eyed Oscar with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. “Good morning, sir,” Oscar said with a slight wave.
“Rodriguez,” Dutch replied. “You’re here. In my home. On a Saturday. Before eight.”
Oscar nodded, but then he sort of seemed to get it when he took in my robe and Dutch’s pajama bottoms and T-shirt attire. The agent’s cheeks reddened. “Uh . . . sorry. Did I get you guys up?”
I smiled sweetly at Oscar. “No, honey. We got each other up.”
Dutch ducked his chin to hide a smile and turned back to making breakfast, while Oscar’s face flushed even more. Clearing his throat, he said, “Maybe I should come back later?”
I waved a hand at him. “Oh, forget it. You’re here now. Dutch can throw a few more eggs and sausages on. You might as well join us for breakfast. Now, come with me to the study. I’m feeling good about our chances of finding you the perfect home.”
Leading Oscar to the study, which was off the dining room, I felt my radar practically singing to me. Sometimes I’ll feel so strongly about something that it almost seems like a memory that I’m recalling with great clarity. In my mind’s eye when I’d told Oscar that he needed to buy a new place, I’d seen a simple bungalow of white stucco, with a prominent A-line roof, and a small but tidy yard. I’d also had a feeling that the home was farther east than where Dutch and I lived, and south of downtown, so after hopping on Zillow, I scrolled over the area I felt drawn to and within ten minutes I’d actually found that house.
When I clicked on the address, the house came up for us and Oscar leaned in to peer at the pictures. “Oscar,” I told him with a flourish, “welcome to your new home.”
“Huh,” he said.
I blinked. “Don’t blow me away with your enthusiasm.”
“It’s kinda big, don’t you think?”
“It’s eighteen hundred square feet. That’s hardly ‘big.’”
“But it’s three bedrooms. Cooper, what am I gonna do with three bedrooms?”
I held up my hand and ticked off on my fingers. “Master bedroom, home office, guest bedroom slash extra storage.” When he still looked unconvinced, I read the description out loud. “‘Hardwood floors, granite countertops, new AC and furnace, separate shower and garden tub in master bath.’ Honey, this house is awesome! And look, it just came on the market yesterday! If we call the Realtor after breakfast, I’ll bet we can get you in for a showing today!”
Oscar frowned, clicking through more photos. “I don’t know . . . ,” he mused.
I sighed and threw up my hands. Pointing to the screen, I said, “I’m not sure how to break it to you, buddy, but that’s your new home.”
And then Oscar stopped clicking and he said, “Whoa.”
“What’s ‘whoa’?”
He went back a photo. “There’s a pool.”
I smiled. “And it’s a nice pool at that.”
“And a hot tub.”
I pointed again to the screen, this time to the list of features. “And it’s wired for sound throughout, even out to the hot tub.”
Oscar took out his phone, his fingers practically shaking with excitement. “What’s the number to call?”
I chuckled and covered his phone with my hand. “You can’t call now.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s just past eight a.m. on a Saturday morning. Seriously, if you were my client, I’d kill you if you called me that early.”
“Then when can I call?”
I closed the window to Zillow and pulled up my personal e-mail account. From there I typed in the name of a client who was also a real estate agent, and after finding her e-mail address, I sent her a quick note asking her to call me as soon as she got the message, as I had an eager client ready to make an offer on a house very, very soon.
Next I turned to Oscar and said, “Have you already applied for a mortgage?”
Oscar blinked. “Uh, no. I was sorta gonna pay cash.”
It was my turn to blink. “You were sorta . . . gonna . . . what?”
“It’s only two hundred thousand, right?”
“You have two hundred thousand dollars saved? Like . . . in a checking account?”
Oscar shrugged. “Well, yeah. My rent’s only five hundred a month, Cooper. My car’s ten years old and I bought it for cash back then too. Most of my paycheck stays in the bank.”
Just then Dutch stepped into the doorway. “Breakfast is on,” he said. Then he must have caught my expression. “What’s wrong?”
I stood there for a sec, slack-jawed, and looked from Dutch to Oscar, then back again. “He’s got two hundred grand in his checking account,” I said. “He’s gonna pay for his new house in cash.”
Dutch’s eyes widened. “Good job, Oscar.”
“Thank you, sir,” Oscar said, with a bit of both embarrassment and pride.
Dutch nodded. “Eggs are getting cold,” he said. The man brooked no argument about getting to the table to eat a hot meal.
Oscar waited for me to lead the way and all I could do was shake my head. On the way to the dining room, we passed the large pickle jar that was half-full of shiny quarters, its other half full with various bills and pieces of paper with “I.O.U.” scrawled across the surface. That jar accounted for much of my savings.
Dutch seemed to read my body language as I passed the jar because he said, “Maybe this time next year you’ll have sworn your way to paying off our mortgage.”
I stiffened, but Oscar made a choking sound and when I looked at him over my shoulder, he was covering his mouth to hide the smile and added a forced cough.
“Wiseass,” I growled, narrowing my eyes at Dutch.
He was having himself a pretty good chuckle. Just for that, I wasn’t going to do the dishes.
Halfway through breakfast Oscar got a call. He looked at the display and excused himself from the table to take it in the living room. I frowned as he left because I knew he wasn’t the type to take a call in the middle of the breakfast his boss had just prepared unless it was something important.
Across the table from me, Dutch didn’t say anything, but I could tell he thought the same thing. We ate in silence for a few moments before he pointed to the stack of files he’d brought home for me to look through. “Did you get anything?”
I shook my head. “Nothing off Wendy McLain’s murder, but I still haven’t finished with Donna Andrews’s file.”
Dutch sighed. “Damn,” he muttered.
I stabbed at a bit of hash brown with my fork. I wanted very much to give Dutch a lead that he could act on, but I’d scoured Wendy McLain’s file for anything I could find that might link her murder back to Corzo. So far, I’d come up with bupkes. The small dent I’d made in Donna Andrews’s folder wasn’t leaving me too optimistic either. “I’m trying, honey,” I told him.
“I know, doll,” he said, reaching out to give my hand a squeeze. “I know.”
Oscar came back to the table, looking like he had news. “What’s up?” I asked as he took his seat and put his napkin back in his lap.
“That was the lead detective on Skylar’s case—Ray Dioli. He finally returned my call. I told him what we wanted, and he shut me right down.”
&nbs
p; “Shit!” I swore, then glared angrily at the swear jar across the room. I was gonna go broke at this rate.
“Wait,” Oscar said. “You didn’t let me finish. After he told me no way, he asked me who I was working for, and I told him that I was freelancing for you, and then he changed his whole tune.”
I blinked. “Changed his tune? What does that mean?”
Oscar lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug, and I took in the rather amused quirk to his lips. “He’s heard of you.”
I blinked some more. “Heard of me?”
“Yep. Said his kid came to see you a few months ago. Do you remember reading a Chris Dioli?”
I searched my memory banks. For a long time, most of my clients were women, but for about the past year or so, I’d been getting more and more men, so some guy from a few months ago was not much to go on. “No,” I said.
“Well, I guess you hit it out of the park for Dioli’s kid, Cooper, because he’s now a huge fan. A lot of stuff you predicted for the kid has already happened, and you even told him to tell his dad to lay off the sodium to cut down on his hypertension. You also told him that his dad needed to do something to lower his blood pressure, or he’d be cutting his life expectancy short. Turns out Dioli had had a doctor’s appointment the very same day his kid came to see you, and at the same time, and while you were telling his kid about his hypertension, his doctor was saying the exact same thing to Ray.”
“Huh,” I said. Even though I’ve been predicting the futures of my clients for almost a decade now, I’m still surprised by how accurate the stuff that feels like it just rolls off my tongue can be.
“Anyway,” Oscar continued, “after I told him I was working with you because you’d taken an interest in the case, he changed his mind. He’d like to meet with us.”
I cocked my head at him, sensing Oscar was holding back something. “He’d like to meet with us, or he’s agreed to meet with us?”
Oscar took a bigger interest in his food. “Uh, he sort of asked me if it was gonna be just me, or me and you, and when I said it was the two of us, he was happy.”
I squinted suspiciously at the agent. “Happy? Why was he happy, Oscar?”
Oscar cleared his throat and refused to look at me. Shoveling a sizable portion of eggs into his mouth, he mumbled, “He’d like to get your opinion on something.”
“A case?” I guessed, feeling my shoulders set with irritation.
Oscar shrugged. “I guess. He wasn’t really specific.”
I glared at Oscar, but Dutch said, “What can it hurt, Edgar? You look into his case and he lets you look into his.”
I pointed to the stack of files to my left. “I’ve already got a full caseload, babe.”
“So you make up the terms before Dioli can rope you into another investigation. Tell him that in exchange for your first impressions, you’ll need a copy of the file on Skylar Miller. Once he agrees, spend a little time with him on his case, collect your copy of the murder file, and leave.”
I tapped my finger on the table. “Yeah, okay. I guess that’s a good compromise. Oscar, when did Dioli want to meet?”
“I told him we’d see him in half an hour. And that was five minutes ago.” Oscar then paused to look me over while I gaped at him. “Cooper, you might want to shower first.”
I rushed through a very quick shower and got dressed in lightweight capris and a loose-fitting tank. The low overnight had been eighty degrees, and when Oscar and I rolled up to the APD substation in separate cars, my phone said it was already ninety-two. As I parked my car next to Oscar’s, my phone rang, and I saw that it was Bonnie, my client the Realtor. I got out of the car and held up a finger to Oscar as he waited for me to walk with him into the building. I chatted quickly with Bonnie and made arrangements for her to meet Oscar at the house we’d found online at eleven. “You’re not coming?” Oscar asked, the second I was off the phone with Bonnie.
“I have clients starting at ten thirty, which is why I insisted we take separate cars. I barely have time to meet with Dioli.”
He frowned but nodded, and I followed him inside the building, which was air-conditioned to a comfortable degree rather than the frigid temps Dutch and his crew kept the bureau offices.
Making our way upstairs to the second floor, we inquired about Detective Dioli with the duty officer and we were on our way to sit in the chairs in the small lobby when we heard someone call, “Hey” behind us.
My first impression of Dioli was that he resembled a lot of the cops on APD’s force, who all seemed to have come from the same genetic stock—thick in the shoulders and neck, a bit of a belly, face of a bulldog, and completely bald. I offered him a perfunctory smile and hoped he wasn’t also thick in the head.
He waved us over to walk with him and we followed obediently past several empty cubicles to the back of a room lit with harsh fluorescents. We stopped behind him at a smallish round table with three chairs.
I noticed that Dioli had dressed casually in jeans and a black T, and I thought he might be off duty but getting in a little extra paperwork time over the weekend.
In the center of the table were two thick stacks of folders. Before we sat down, the detective turned to face us with outstretched hand. “Ray Dioli,” he said. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Miss Cooper. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I took his hand and shook it. “It’s ‘Mrs.’ now, and please call me Abby, Ray. It’s nice to meet you too.” Dioli then shook Oscar’s hand and we all sat down.
Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, Dioli said, “Agent Rodriguez said you’re interested in the Skylar Miller appeal?”
“Yes,” I said without any elaboration.
Dioli looked me square in the eye, as if attempting to read me the way he knew I could read him. “You think she’ll win the appeal?”
“No.”
Dioli nodded. “Good,” he said with no small measure of bitterness.
I worked hard to keep my expression neutral. “You’re convinced she did it?”
He held my gaze again. “Without a shadow of a doubt. She did it. She butchered that little boy.”
I took in both his conviction and his statement before I asked my next question. “Can you tell me about the case?” I knew I could bargain for the file, but I thought that since Dioli had been the lead detective, he’d be the best person to give me the highlights of how he came to make the case against Skylar.
Dioli tapped his index finger on the table and chewed on the inside of his cheek, as if considering my request. “Yeah, I can tell you all about it, but I’d like something in return.”
“Of course,” I said easily. “I’m always happy to assist the APD.”
Ray chuckled. “Yeah, so I hear.” Even though his comment held no malice, I knew by it that he must’ve heard about the times I’d butted heads with those in APD. “I had your partner down here a couple of months ago.”
“She says you gave her a rough time.” I probably shouldn’t have baited him, but where Candice was concerned, my inner protective tiger came out.
Dioli shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Her husband’s a Fed,” he said.
“As is mine.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t filmed shooting a guy in a parking garage. I worked that scene. It was ugly. Anyway, I had to push her and see if there were any holes in her story. I wouldn’t be a good cop if I didn’t.”
I took a deep breath and was aware that Oscar was sitting quietly in his chair, his gaze roving back and forth between us. “I guess that’s fair,” I told Dioli. “She doesn’t seem to harbor any hard feelings at least.”
He chuckled again, like he thought me a nice little white liar. “So! About our bargain. I tell you about Skylar Miller, and in exchange I’d like your thoughts on a case that we’re having a hell of a tough time cracking and, due to the lack of any sol
id leads, is about to get put on ice.”
“I agree to your terms except with one added request.”
“Which is?”
“I’d like a copy of Noah’s murder file.”
Dioli narrowed his eyes at me . . . suspicious. “Why?”
“I’m writing a book,” I said easily. Wow, that lie had just totally rolled right off my tongue. Maybe I’d need another jar for those.
“You’re writing a book?” the detective asked me, as if my answer didn’t quite make sense to him.
“Yes.”
“You’re a psychic—why would you want to write a book about a murder you didn’t help solve?”
“Color me adventurous.”
Dioli chuckled again. I hoped it was a good thing that he found me amusing at least. “You working for Miller?” he asked me, suddenly losing all sense of humor and narrowing those eyes again.
“No.” Holding up a pinkie, I added, “Pinkie swear.”
Dioli glanced at Oscar as if to get his take, but Oscar merely offered him a mildly polite blank stare. Finally Dioli sat back and said, “Okay, but if I’m gonna make you a copy of the file, then I want your word that you’re not working for Skylar Miller or any of these liberal groups trying to get death row inmates out of the needle.”
“You have it, Detective. I assure you, my interest in Miller’s case is personal. I’m advancing my own agenda here. That’s it.”
At last, he nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll make you a copy of the file.”
“Awesome, and I’ll give you my impressions on this case of yours.”
Dioli stuck out his hand again. “Deal.” We shook on it and then he started telling me about the murder of Noah Miller, and bless Oscar, he subtly set his phone down to record Dioli in a way that only I saw. “It was a big case that took up two years of my life, so I remember it like the back of my hand,” he began. “The call came into dispatch at two thirty-eight a.m. At first it was reported as a burglary in progress. Unis were dispatched to the scene, and as they went through clearing the house, they saw bloody footprints leading out from the back bedroom. The house had only two bedrooms, both off the hallway leading from the living room.
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