“Who?”
“I’m not there yet. I’m going to call over to Arizona State. A friend of a friend is a professor. Teaches Native American Studies.”
“And?”
“Maybe the message is tied into the whole folklore.”
“You think our killer is Native American?”
Chase laughs. And, again, Mills wants to throw a punch. Smack that superior grin off his face. “No. I don’t think he’s Native American,” the fucking genius says. “But obviously the murders, the carvings, the petroglyphs are no coincidence. Our killer may be trying to adopt some kind of ancient symbolism.”
They both turn to the doorway at the sound of clicking heels. Bridget Mulroney poses in the doorframe, her makeup vibrant and cartoonish. She looks like Raggedy Ann put on an inky black wig and a business suit. And Mills is guessing Raggedy Ann Mulroney has had breast implants. She stands there with a gleam in her eyes and a wicked smile across her face.
“Hello, Bridget,” Mills says.
“May I come in?”
“Of course,” Mills tells her. “Grab a chair.”
As she does she says, “People don’t like what they’re seeing on the news. The mayor’s office is freaking out. Calls, e-mails, everything. Is there any way we can fix this?”
“Fix it?” Mills asks.
She tilts her head. “You know what I mean. Don’t make it so sensational. Keep it simple. Don’t overdramatize. It’s all over social media. Hashtag ‘Deadly Phoenix.’”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Mills says to her. “It’s a fucking murder case. Three bodies. We can’t help it if the media makes it all dramatic.”
“I guess what I’m saying is that maybe there’s a way to restrict the media,” Bridget tells them.
Chase laughs.
Mills rolls his eyes. “Really? The city is asking us to restrict the media? It’s a lose-lose proposition. If we don’t restrict the media, they take the case and they sensationalize it. If we do restrict the media and they find out we’re withholding information, we’re in deep shit with the public.”
“Deep shit,” Chase says.
“You should know that, Bridget,” Mills adds. “Weren’t you a TV reporter?”
“Don’t hold that against me,” she replies. “TV news people are crazy.”
“And yet you speak about them in the third person,” Mills says.
She ignores the remark. “Is there anything you guys can tell me? Anything I can take back to the city?” she begs.
Chase says, “We’re putting together a profile of the killer. We’re examining and comparing forensics from all the crime scenes. And we intend to work with any agency or jurisdiction in the valley.”
“Is that on the record?” she asks.
Chase looks to Mills. Mills nods.
“Fabulous,” she says. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”
“Like what?” Chase asks.
“Like, do you have leads? What should the women in the valley do to protect themselves? Are we closing off hiking trails? What evidence is interesting?”
“No comment. Hike in groups. No. No comment,” Mills recites.
Chase gives him a smart look of approval. As if he needs one.
“You guys are being so cagey,” she whines.
This goes on for about ten minutes, during which Mills zones out and thinks about Trevor and really disappears into the notion that his son’s drug dealing is not simply a juvenile transgression. There is something more here. He tried reaching one of the guys in Narcotics yesterday and hasn’t heard back, but Mills’s gut tells him that the volume and value of the weed is way beyond a typical high school bust. Everyone knows the drug trade from Mexico has spilled over the border and has become very much a Phoenix problem. It’s an intractable problem that persists despite the smoke and mirrors of Sheriff Clayman Tarpo’s very public crackdowns on illegals. America is the inhaler of Mexican drugs. The drug gangs are lethal not because they’re Mexican. They’re lethal because they’re gangs. He worries it might be too late to extricate Trevor. Sure, most of the charges were dropped, but he worries his son is too entrenched somehow. At the courthouse there was real fear in Trevor’s eyes, not fear of punishment, fear of a graver danger. Alex can’t help but think that, even if all the charges are dropped, this will not have a good ending. He languishes there with this bleakness, with this sense of resignation, when a fist pounds the surface of the desk. Everything rattles.
“Are you even listening to me, Alex?”
His eyes meet the fist of Bridget Mulroney, then her eyes.
“Don’t you ever do that again, Bridget,” he tells her. “Ever.” And then he looks away, wondering if that warning was really for his son, if it’s Trevor clenched in his jaw, not Bridget Mulroney; the spastic woman just happened to pound the wrong desk at the wrong time.
“Well, pay attention, Detective. I’m not here for my health,” she says.
Mills doesn’t even know why she’s here. And he tells her that. “We don’t do department relations or public information. We don’t deal with the media. You should be talking to Sergeant Woods or one of our PIOs.”
“I did,” she insists. “They sent me to you guys.”
Chase shakes his head. “Of course they did.”
Mills recognizes the deflation of Bridget Mulroney. She just sits there sinking into herself. Ten minutes ago she was full of fire, and now she’s wilting, curling in, going fetal. Could she really be a victim? The question has been needling him but hard to entertain, what, with all her histrionics, but it’s been there, poking at him, like maybe he has some responsibility for this woman, the one sitting here, her layers peeled back. His jaw is still an aching vise. He tries to imagine what Gus Parker has seen, the actual vision of her in danger. What the fuck does that look like? He shakes his head, it begins to throb, and he doesn’t know what to tell her, or whether to tell her anything at all.
“What do you say we do lunch?” he asks her.
Her brows go up. The rest of her face is cartoonish surprise. “Alex, I don’t fuck my colleagues.”
“And I don’t fuck . . . whatever it is you are.”
“Then why ask me out to lunch?”
“Maybe he’s hungry,” Chase says.
“Gus Parker wants to talk to you,” Mills says to her.
She twists in her chair, does a half spin. “Who’s Gus Parker?”
“The psychic,” Mills replies.
“Oh, come on,” she says with a hearty tavern laugh. “Is he seeing my future?”
“He just wants to ask you a few questions,” Mills says, rising from his desk.
“I get it. He wants to hook up. What are you, Alex, my pimp?”
Chase laughs. Mills does not. “No, but why does everything out of your mouth seem to involve fucking?”
“Everything in my mouth, too, Alex,” she says with a cackle.
Chase roars. Mills seethes at him. Then he turns to Bridget and says, “Keep it up and HR will want to have a chat with you.”
“Oh,” she purrs, “am I offending you? Little me making the macho cop nervous? What kind of healthy male isn’t turned on by a little flirtation?”
“What kind of healthy woman behaves like this?” Mills asks her.
“Who says I’m healthy?” She looks to Chase. He smiles but averts her gaze.
Mills grabs a few files from his desk and makes for the door.
“Are we still on for lunch?” Bridget asks.
He shakes his head and scoffs. “I don’t think I have a choice. Gus Parker for some reason wants to help you.”
“Help me? With what?”
And then, fuck it. “He thinks you might be in danger.”
“In danger of what?” she asks, then stands to face Mills. Again, there’s a real person there, not a bold temptress, not an actress, not a frost queen. She’s shaking. Her neck is turning red.
“Meet me in the lobby at one o’clock,” he says.
> Chase and Bridget look at each other, then at him.
“We’re done for now,” Mills tells them.
Two hours later Bridget shows up in the lobby, hands on hips. “Look, Mills, this is a complete waste of my time. I’ve got lots of work to do. Yours is not the only project on my plate.”
He just stares at her blankly and says, “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that.”
They meet Gus at Café Nana in Tempe. Gus is already in a booth by the window when they arrive. Mills offers a fist bump, which Gus returns awkwardly. Bridget extends her delicate hand. “Pleasure,” she says. “I think.”
“You think?” Gus asks.
She smiles saucily. “I’m prepared to be intrigued.”
“Didn’t know intrigue required preparation,” Gus tosses back.
Mills studies the volley across the table. Clearly Bridget is sizing up Gus Parker, but the calculation in her eyes is hard to follow. Mills knows she’s on the prowl, but he also knows that her lively masquerade must be covering for something too hot to touch. There’s that constant affectation, as if she’s still on camera, craving attention, coyly playing to the audience for its validation and for its love. He’s no shrink, but Mills knows damage when he sees it. Right now he sees the woman trying to unlock the possibilities of Gus Parker, studying him like maybe he could save her life.
“Detective Mills, here, says you’re psychic.”
“There’s probably some truth to that,” Gus tells her.
“So aloof,” she says.
A waiter with a British accent brings them water and menus. His name is Kent.
“He’s faking it,” Gus tells them when the waiter drifts off.
“He’s not Kent?” Bridget asks.
“He’s not British,” Gus says. “He’s a theater major at ASU, and he’s doing an act.”
“You know him?” Bridget asks.
“No,” Gus tells her. “I just know.”
She rolls her eyes.
Mills turns to Gus and says, “Bridget hasn’t been with the city long.”
“Just under a year,” she says. “And no one ever told me that we had our own special Psychic Friend.”
“You’re not familiar with my work,” Gus tells her.
She laughs again. “Uh, no, Mr. Parker. I’m not.”
Mills shifts toward her. “Gus has led us to several suspects over the years. He’s helped us wrap up some really difficult murder cases.”
“I don’t know whether that says something about Mr. Parker or something about this department,” she says.
“Enough with the attitude, Bridget,” Mills warns her. “Gus thinks you’re in danger.”
She leans forward. “In danger of what? Boredom?”
“Knock it off, Bridget,” Mills snaps. “Just listen to what the guy has to say. If you want to ignore it, ignore it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but surely you can understand how all this talk of danger might make a girl like me nervous.”
“We don’t want to make you nervous,” Gus assures her.
The waiter returns to take their order.
“So where in England are you from?” Bridget asks him with a juicy grin.
He hesitates. “London,” he says as if he’s drawing a number from a hat. “Now what can I get you?”
They order lunch. Bridget takes a big gulp of water, swallows and says, “Seriously, guys, should I be scared?”
Gus ignores her question and asks, “I want you to think carefully and tell me if you’ve noticed anything unusual in your daily routine.”
“Like what?”
“Really focus on the last few days.”
“But I don’t know what you mean by unusual.”
“A car that reappears in your midst. A face that doesn’t belong,” Gus explains.
She laughs nervously. “You have to be kidding me.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Please,” she scoffs.
“Please what?” Gus asks. “Do you pay attention?”
“To what?”
“Your surroundings.”
“I don’t know.” Impatience is growing in her voice.
Gus clears his throat. “I saw you on TV at the first press conference last week,” he begins. “I don’t know if the killer was there camouflaging himself among the media, or whether he was watching from home, but I really got the sense that he was watching you.”
“Me? I was way off in the background. I watched a clip from the press conference too, and you could barely see me.”
“I saw you,” Gus says dryly.
“Did you notice anyone unusual in the crowd?” Mills asks her.
She shakes her head. “No,” she replies. “I know all the reporters here. I don’t remember seeing a strange face.”
“I think he was watching you on TV,” Gus says. “That’s all I’m saying. The killer connected with you for some reason. I get this vibe, a strong vibe, that he might want to stalk you.”
Bridget Mulroney stares at him. She moves her lips around as if sampling the taste of something, considering the palate of it. “I appreciate the warning. But why did you wait four days to tell me?”
“I’m sorry,” Gus says. “Our paths should have crossed sooner.”
“At first I didn’t want to alarm you,” Mills adds. “But then all of a sudden I try to call you and you’re hiking Squaw Peak and the next day we find a dead body there. You know, things added up.”
She folds her arms across her chest, tilts her head, and nods as if she finally gets it, but she doesn’t get it or doesn’t want to get it. It’s all mockery. “Assuming I buy into all of your psychic mumbo jumbo, what do I do with this information?” she asks them.
“Be totally aware of your surroundings,” Mills says gravely. “Notice everything.”
“And assuming I don’t buy into any of this?”
“Totally ignore your surroundings,” Gus retorts. “Notice nothing.”
Mills lets out a good laugh. Gives Gus a high five.
“Well, aren’t you boys just the coolest and the smartest,” she says. “You come to me with these, uh, serious assertions, and then offer the most laughable advice. ‘Be totally aware of your surroundings.’ How about you give me something more to work with? What does the guy look like? What does he drive?”
“We don’t know,” Gus says. “I’m working on it.”
“And you call yourself a psychic?” she asks.
“Actually, that’s what other people call me. It just kind of stuck. I actually work as an imaging tech. You know, MRIs, ultrasounds, that sort of thing.”
“Right,” she says. “But I’m curious. Is Mr. Parker’s role in this case public information?”
“No,” Mills replies. “Not yet. Gus isn’t looking for any kind of attention. Ain’t that right, Gus?”
The psychic nods.
Bridget engages Gus in a tempting bout of staring. He counters without a blink.
Lunch arrives. They eat, mostly in silence. Bridget comments on the salad dressing. “Savory,” she calls it. “Very savory.”
Mills looks at her hard, studies her through the lens of unsavory crime, sees her in abstract places running from shadows, down a dark alleyway, her office after hours, a deserted parking deck; he doesn’t have the same gift as Gus Parker, but now at least he sees the possibility. She’s sitting right next to him, and she could disappear tonight. The thought just lands in his lap, thud, and it’s not a thought he can easily dismiss.
“Would you mind checking in with me a few times tonight?” he asks her.
She turns to him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“If I happen to remember.”
Kent returns to ask if everything is to their liking.
They assure him it is.
Bridget asks Gus if he ever dates his patients.
“No,” he tells her.
“Do you ever fantasize about them?” she persists.
“All the time,” he says. “The problem is my fantasies are not like your fantasies. My fantasies tend to be visions of what will come to them.”
“No sex,” she says.
“No sex, unless of course that’s what’s coming to them, and then, of course, not explicitly.”
“Wow,” she says, clearly ignoring what he really means. “You never fantasize. That’s so sad.”
Mills shakes his head and crunches a french fry. Under his breath he mutters, “Thank you, Sybil,” which no one hears.
Kent, the non-Brit, returns to clear their dishes.
“I know this all seems kind of strange to you,” Gus says to Bridget. “I appreciate that. But I’d hate to be right about this and you be wrong about heeding the warning.”
“Damn, you’re good,” Bridget tells him. “Just the right amount of Disney, and just the right amount of Stephen King. I don’t suppose you talk to dead people.”
“Only my uncle,” Gus says. “I’m not that kind of psychic.”
“Because if you were,” Bridget continues, “you could just ask Elizabeth Spears and Lindsey Drake who killed them.”
“That is, of course, if they knew their assailant.”
“Of course. But wouldn’t it be great to at least get a good description from them?” the woman muses.
“It would be,” Gus concurs. “Great.”
Bridget offers her business card to Gus, says she has to pee, and tells the men to wait for her outside.
The men say nothing until they reach the sidewalk.
With traffic blowing by, Gus turns to Mills and says, “What the hell is her deal?”
“Her deal . . .” Mills successfully pauses for dramatic effect. “Her deal . . . Where do I begin? It’s a long story, Gus, but the short version is this: Mulroney comes from an influential family. Mulroney Construction is her father’s company.”
“I don’t know the name,” Gus says.
“I’m sure you’ve seen their signs everywhere,” Mills tells him. “They’re huge. They build schools, libraries, banks . . . that kind of stuff. The Mulroneys are loaded, Gus, and the word is whatever Bridget wants, Daddy makes sure she gets.”
“Hence her job with the city.”
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