Death Perception

by Victoria Laurie

Melody gasped. ‘‘He is!’’

  ‘‘Super, and there’s a young man taking his place. I believe he has brown hair and he’s got this flashy energy about him. They keep saying he’s a prince trying to fill the king’s shoes.’’

  More laughter wafted through the phone line. ‘‘The man retiring is a named partner. There have been rumors that he plans to leave his son a seat on the board, and most of us don’t think he’s up for the job. His dad is a great attorney. The son is just so-so.’’

  ‘‘I would agree,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t think the son is up for it. Give it six months and this kid will be asked to leave. After he’s gone, I feel like a woman with black hair will come into the picture, and she’s like lightning in a bottle, Melody. Whatever you do, you absolutely must get on her team.’’

  Melody paused before speaking. ‘‘I don’t know who that could be,’’ she finally said.

  ‘‘This woman has a connection to Chicago. I feel she is either from there or coming from there.’’

  ‘‘No one at our firm fits that description, Abby.’’

  ‘‘That’s fine, Melody. As I said, we’re about six months out and a lot can happen in that time period. Just remember that I said this woman would be amazing to work for, and if and when she shows up, you’ve got to angle yourself to work for her. It would really benefit you in a lot of ways—more money, higher profile, nicer boss, et cetera.’’

  ‘‘Great! I’ll look out for her.’’

  ‘‘Now they’re showing me boxes, but it’s odd. I don’t feel like these are your boxes. I feel like they belong to an older male. And I don’t feel like he’s moving—I feel like he’s storing these boxes somewhere.’’

  Again, Melody chuckled. ‘‘That’s my dad!’’ she said. ‘‘He’s living in this really cramped condo and I offered to take some of the clutter off his hands. I’m going there this weekend to pick up the excess and store it in my garage.’’

  ‘‘Awesome, now...’’ I paused for a moment as a few more thoughts came into my head along with an all-too-familiar energy that made my shoulders sag. ‘‘Melody?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘How’s your dad’s health been lately?’’

  ‘‘That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about, Abby. My dad’s been complaining that he’s had some trouble breathing, but he won’t go to the doctor. I think he’s scared of what they’ll find.’’

  In my head I saw the unmistakable symbol that meant dear old Dad was running out of time. An hourglass appeared in my mind’s eye, the sand seeping through the little hole at a rapid rate, and a sense that Melody’s father had something truly serious going on in those lungs. ‘‘Is there any way you can convince him to go to the doctor?’’

  ‘‘I’ve tried,’’ she said. ‘‘He won’t go.’’

  My radar said that it wouldn’t do any good anyway. What he had wasn’t curable. ‘‘Okay,’’ I said, working to keep my voice light. ‘‘If your dad wants to take responsibility for his health, then there’s not much you can do about it. Just make sure you spend some really good quality time with him so that you can keep tabs on him, okay?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely,’’ she said. ‘‘I love my pop.’’

  Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t divulge what I believed was Dad’s demise. The simple fact is that sometimes the truth does hurt. Melody hadn’t asked me the question, ‘‘Do you think my dad will die?’’ so I technically didn’t have to tell her what I felt. This way, she and her father could enjoy life without some horrible doomsday hanging over their heads. I figured he had about three to six months left, and they’d find out soon enough as his health continued to deteriorate, so why give her the death sentence now? It wouldn’t do anyone any good.

  So we went on with our reading and I filled her with high hopes for her future, which wasn’t a lie. I just glazed over the energy in March, when I felt her father would cross over and she’d be sad, because I could see that by June she’d be right as rain again.

  After I hung up with her, I had a few minutes before my next appointment, so I headed in to check on Dutch. He was propped up on some pillows and had the television on mute. He still looked pale, but I could tell his fever hadn’t come back and he did look better. ‘‘Hey,’’ he said when I appeared in the doorway.

  ‘‘Hey, yourself,’’ I said, easing over to his bedside. ‘‘How’re you feeling?’’

  Dutch held up the small package of crackers; two were missing. ‘‘And that’s my second glass of water,’’ he said, motioning to the side table where I’d set his glass. As I reflexively looked over to the glass, my breath caught. For just the briefest moment, I thought I’d seen an hourglass instead of a drinking glass on the table. ‘‘What?’’ he asked, noticing my quick intake of breath.

  ‘‘Nothing,’’ I said quickly, shaking my head a little. ‘‘I’m just tired and my readings have been plagued with bad news lately.’’

  ‘‘It’s tough being you, isn’t it, Edgar?’’ he asked, and I noticed the little smirk on his face that suggested he was humoring me.

  ‘‘Only when I have to play nursemaid to a certain someone,’’ I said.

  Dutch scoffed. ‘‘Better nursemaid than cook.’’

  I rolled my eyes and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. ‘‘I gotta get to my next appointment. You eat another cracker and drink a little more water, okay?’’

  Dutch saluted me and I knew that he was starting to really feel better. He was playful only when he felt well.

  I finished up with my other two readings about an hour and a half later and as I got up to go back to the bedroom, I felt really light-headed and dizzy myself. ‘‘How you doin’?’’ Dutch asked when he saw me.

  ‘‘I need to eat,’’ I said. ‘‘I think the last time I had anything was last night, and that wasn’t much.’’

  ‘‘Cracker?’’ he asked, extending the last cracker in the package out to me.

  I smiled. ‘‘Naw. That’s all you, cowboy. I think I’ll call up some room service.’’

  Dutch handed me the menu and I looked through it, trying to decide what I was hungry for. As I was bouncing back and forth between a club sandwich and a Reuben, Dutch’s cell went off. I heard him answer with his usual curt, ‘‘Rivers,’’ and pause while the caller talked. I couldn’t really follow the conversation as the caller seemed to be doing all the talking, but it was clear it was about Chase and the case we were working.

  While Dutch was still on the phone, I quietly placed my order using the hotel phone in the sitting room. Then I came back into the bedroom, where Dutch was just sliding his cell back onto the nightstand. ‘‘Did they find Chase?’’ I asked hopefully.

  Dutch shook his head. ‘‘No. But Delgado’s wife called Brosseau. She said a note arrived about an hour ago suggesting that her husband was alive and that ransom instructions would be arriving soon. Brosseau and another detective are headed over there now to wait with her.’’

  ‘‘Oh, God,’’ I said, sitting heavily on the bed. ‘‘Was there any mention of Chase?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Dutch’s face was back to resembling a granite sculpture, which meant he was really worried. I crossed over to my purse on the dresser and pulled out the picture Laney had given me. With my back to Dutch, it was a moment before I could bring myself to look at the picture, but taking a deep breath, I focused on Chase’s image and felt my shoulders relax.

  ‘‘Is he still alive?’’ Dutch asked from the bed.

  I turned and gave Dutch a hopeful smile. ‘‘Yes. He’s still clearly present in this photo, Dutch. He’s alive.’’

  ‘‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’’ My stomach gave a growl and I walked weakly over to a chair in the corner of the room. ‘‘That’s okay,’’ he said, watching me sit down. ‘‘We’ll wait until after you’ve eaten.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, cowboy,’’ I said gratefully. ‘‘I really do work better on a ful
l stomach.’’

  We watched the television in silence until the room service arrived. Dutch paid and tipped the waiter and inspected my meal. ‘‘You’re having soup and a salad?’’ he said, looking skeptically at me. ‘‘I thought you were thinking of a sandwich. Aren’t you afraid all that healthy food will go right to your hips?’’

  I laughed. I’d been working out with Candice for the past several months, and all of my clothes were loose, even given my insatiable appetite for fast and greasy food. ‘‘I know, I know, not my usual fare. And I couldn’t decide on which sandwich to go with, so I figured I’d order this instead. The soup is actually for you, and if I’m hungry later, I’ll order a pizza or something.’’

  Dutch sat down at the table where the waiter had set the tray. ‘‘Not sure I can handle the beef barley,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Don’t go for the whole thing,’’ I said, lifting the bowl off the tray and setting it down in front of him. ‘‘Just sip a little of the broth. We need you at full strength as soon as we can get you there,’’ I said. ‘‘And putting a few calories and liquid into your system will help.’’

  Dutch continued to gaze skeptically at the broth, swirling it around with his spoon. I shoved some crackers his way too. He took the hint and tried a tiny sip of the broth. ‘‘Not bad,’’ he said after tasting it.

  I relaxed in my seat and dived into my salad and we ate in silence for a bit. ‘‘Did Brosseau let on if he knew who might have kidnapped Chase and Delgado?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘And right now he’s debating about calling in the local FBI to handle it.’’

  ‘‘That would be a good thing, right? They’d let you assist with the case out here, wouldn’t they?’’

  ‘‘Trust me, Abs. It would not be a good thing.’’

  I cocked my head at him when he didn’t explain, but just then there was a chirp on Dutch’s cell phone and he had to answer the call. This time Dutch did a lot more talking, so I was able to follow along. ‘‘How long ago?’’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘‘And the delivery boy couldn’t give you a description?’’ There was a pause while Dutch listened; then he grabbed a pen and paper off the side table and began to scribble on it. ‘‘We’ll meet you there, Detective. Thanks a lot.’’

  Dutch hung up and I polished off the last bite of my salad. ‘‘I take it we’re heading out?’’

  ‘‘You can stay here, doll,’’ he said kindly. ‘‘You look beat.’’

  ‘‘I’m fine,’’ I said, feeling better than I apparently looked. ‘‘Trust me, if there’s an opportunity to home in on Chase’s kidnappers, I’m up for it.’’

  Dutch gazed at me for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and endearing. ‘‘I am really glad you’re my gal, Abs.’’

  ‘‘Buying me a pair of those Jimmy Choo sandals we saw downstairs would go a long way toward making me feel appreciated,’’ I said with a grin.

  ‘‘Sweethot,’’ he said, giving me his best Humphrey Bogart, ‘‘you find my cousin, and I will buy you a pair for every day of the week.’’

  ‘‘Deal,’’ I said, and we were off to Delgado’s.

  Traffic was beginning to pick up on the Strip, so it took us some time before we were able to make it to the highway and head out to the burbs. Half an hour after we left the Wynn, we came to a stop in front of a gigantic Spanish-style mansion; copper gates barred our entry but allowed our eyes to gaze at the house beyond. ‘‘Delgado’s got dough,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ Dutch replied. Rolling down the window, he stuck his head out and hit the intercom button located on a box outside the gate. ‘‘Yes, hello?’’ said a thickly accented woman’s voice.

  ‘‘Dutch Rivers here to see Detective Brosseau,’’ Dutch said.

  There was a long pause followed by a beeping sound and then the gates began to move apart and we were allowed to enter. Dutch parked us between a Buick minivan and a Mercedes S-Class. ‘‘I’m guessing the Mercedes isn’t the detective’s car,’’ I said as we got out.

  That won me a smirk as we moved to the huge, intricately carved wooden door, where I punched the doorbell. There was a chorus of barking and yipping from within the mansion, and a woman speaking rapid Spanish above the noise opened the door while holding back a small brown and white Pekingese with her foot. ‘‘Sí?’’ she said.

  ‘‘I just called on the speaker,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘We’re here to see the detective.’’

  ‘‘Ah, sí, sí,’’ she said, bending over to pick up the dog. The moment the dog was lifted, another took its place, trying to make a run for it. I bent down and caught the little bugger in the nick of time. ‘‘Tank you, tank you,’’ she said, waving us in. ‘‘They are loco, no?’’

  I smiled and walked inside, where we were greeted by a whole pack of small, furry, yipping dogs. ‘‘It’s like Animal Farm,’’ Dutch muttered out of the side of his mouth as I handed my dog to the woman.

  ‘‘Are you Mrs. Delgado?’’ I asked.

  The woman laughed. ‘‘Oh, no!’’ she said. ‘‘No, the senora is this way.’’

  We followed her through the front hallway with the dogs in tow, arriving in an enormous sitting room, twenty feet by twenty feet, with travertine floors, creamy walls, and a marble fireplace. ‘‘Senora?’’ the woman who’d opened the door to us said to a small, very thin woman with taut skin, unnaturally thick lips, and a perfectly thin nose.

  ‘‘Yes, Rosa?’’ she said without looking at her housekeeper.

  ‘‘These people are here to see the police.’’

  The woman I took to be Mrs. Delgado turned steely gray eyes on me and Dutch, and I realized as she seemed to take stock of our tired and slightly ruffled appearance that she immediately dismissed us as people of no interest to her. ‘‘They’re on the other side of the room, Rosa,’’ Mrs. Delgado snapped.

  ‘‘Sí,’’ Rosa said, completely unperturbed by the tone her employer had taken with her. ‘‘They are over there,’’ she repeated, pointing to the opposite corner of the room.

  Dutch and I swiveled around and saw Detective Brosseau already walking toward us. ‘‘Did you find it okay?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Just fine,’’ Dutch said.

  Brosseau looked past us to Mrs. Delgado and he seemed to flinch. I could only imagine she’d turned the dagger eyes on him too. ‘‘Over here,’’ he said, motioning us over to join the two other detectives in the opposite corner of the room with a large seating area.

  ‘‘Jason, Colby, this is the guy I was telling you about, the bodyguard’s cousin, and this is his... er... girlfriend?’’

  ‘‘Dutch Rivers,’’ my boyfriend said. ‘‘And yes, Detective, this is Abby Cooper, my girlfriend.’’

  We all shook hands and took our seats. Brosseau seemed anxious to fill us in, and Dutch gave him a small hand gesture that indicated he was ready to listen. In a hushed tone, Brosseau brought us up to speed. ‘‘According to Mrs. Delgado, a deliveryman from FedEx arrived here at approximately five ten p.m. The housekeeper, Rosa, signed for the package’’—Brosseau paused as he pointed to a FedEx envelope sealed in a plastic bag marked EVIDENCE—‘‘and then he left. Rosa took the envelope directly to Mrs. Delgado, who opened it at approximately five thirty p.m.

  ‘‘Inside was a single sheet of paper.’’ Again Delgado paused as he reached over and picked up another plastic bag, containing a white sheet of paper with a short typewritten note. ‘‘And this,’’ he added, setting down the envelope and picking up another Baggie, containing a bloodstained watch that looked heavy and expensive.

  ‘‘Is that Delgado’s Rolex?’’ Dutch asked.

  Brosseau nodded. ‘‘The wife confirmed it. Says she gave it to him on their twentieth wedding anniversary.’’

  ‘‘Romantic,’’ I said, and got a warning look from Dutch.

  Brosseau smiled. ‘‘Hardly. When she handed it over to us, she asked when she could have it back. She knows a good pawnshop downtown that p
ays top dollar.’’

  The corner of Dutch’s mouth turned up slightly, and I knew he had a good one-liner, but he held his tongue and let the detective continue. ‘‘The note’s not very helpful,’’ he said. ‘‘Only three lines: ‘We have your husband. We will kill him unless you hand over the money. Instructions to follow.’ ’’

  ‘‘I’m assuming you’ve been in touch with FedEx?’’ Dutch asked.

  One of the other detectives, Colby, spoke up. ‘‘I interviewed the route supervisor fifteen minutes ago. The package was dropped in one of the bins collected on the early-morning shift on the north side of the city. We’ve dispatched a patrolman out there to secure the bin until we can haul it into the lab for fingerprint collection and analysis.’’

  Dutch reached forward and picked up the evidence bag with the letter in it, squinting at the type and holding it up to the light. ‘‘No watermark,’’ he said. ‘‘Just generic white print paper.’’

  ‘‘We’re sending it to our lab for analysis,’’ Brosseau said.

  Dutch set the paper down and peeked over his shoulder. ‘‘How cooperative is the wife being?’’

  Brosseau shrugged. ‘‘She answers every question directly. Doesn’t elaborate but doesn’t appear to be hiding anything either.’’

  ‘‘But she benefits if Delgado dies, right?’’ I asked, and everyone looked at me. ‘‘I mean, if her soon-to-be ex-husband dies before they file for divorce, she gets everything without the pain of attorney fees.’’

  ‘‘What are you getting at?’’ Dutch asked me.

  ‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘if she had anything to do with this, wouldn’t she play up the concern? I mean, I could see her killing him, then inventing some kidnapping scenario to cover it up, but wouldn’t she play it up as the grieving, distraught wife?’’

  ‘‘She’s right,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘She wouldn’t be this blatantly indifferent.’’

  ‘‘But I thought you were the one that said look at the family,’’ Brosseau said, and I could tell from the look of interest from both of the other detectives that he’d already clued them in on my little area of expertise.