A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery) (4 page)

I felt a wave of anger emanate off Robinson, but he gave no outward sign of it. Instead his expression became a blank mask and then he did something that even I didn’t expect. He moved his chair back, got up, tucked the chair back into place, and walked calmly out of the room.

No one spoke as he exited. They didn’t need to. We all understood his absolute dismissal of me, and while I pretended not to care, deep down I’ll admit that the insult stung. It was too reminiscent of being summarily dismissed by my parents when I was a child, and it made me question again why I’d even bothered to come out here to do this. I looked at Rivera, who was still staring at the door as if he was thinking of the lecture he’d be giving to Robinson later.

The whole atmosphere in the room was beginning to change too. With Robinson’s departure, there was a palpable hostility circulating, and I suddenly felt very vulnerable and alone.

I figured I’d really blown it until Agent Hart came to my rescue. She slipped her folder toward me and I noticed that it was actually much thicker than any of the other files. “Ms. Cooper, I’d like to get your impressions on this case, please.”

I took the file and opened it and saw that it was set up in the standard format of all the files that came across my desk when I worked cases back in Austin. Encouraged by the familiarity, I read the first few paragraphs of the file brief on the left-hand side of the page.

The case in question had to do with stolen artwork. There was a gallery owner, Mario Grecco, living in the Hollywood
Hills, who was being investigated for possibly fencing stolen artwork out of Europe. According to the bit of text I read, the FBI hadn’t found a single solid lead to pin him to the crime. None of his clients would cop to the fact that they’d been approached to purchase the artwork, and it was still a mystery as to who Grecco’s contacts in Europe were. It was estimated that he could be responsible for fencing between ten and one hundred million in stolen artwork.

I looked up from reading the brief and asked, “What’s Grecco’s connection to wine?”

Hart seemed confused by my question, but then she said, “Actually, he collects it. It’s one of his hobbies.”

“He may be a collector, but he’s also a forger,” I said. “I keep seeing wine paired with my symbol for forgery.”

While Hart pondered that, Rivera said, “Why is that relevant, Ms. Cooper?”

“Because you’re not going to nail Grecco by following the stolen-art trail. The clients who buy these works from him know full well they’re buying something stolen. But the clients who purchase a super-pricey bottle of wine from him will roll right over if you can prove to them that the wine isn’t the rare vintage he’s claiming it to be. My gut says that he’s forged labels for wine that he probably picked up in the grocery store, then sold those bottles to at least a few of his stolen-art-buying clients. If you offer them immunity on possession of the stolen artwork, they’ll be willing to testify against him.

“And I know you’re after the bigger fish—the ring of art thieves that’s supplying him with the pieces to fence—but you’re looking in the wrong place. These guys steal from all the countries where they don’t actually reside, which is how they keep such a low profile.”

Hart leaned in toward me; she seemed very interested in what I had to say. “We’ve been looking for them in Milan and Verona because so much of the stolen artwork comes from there.”

“Nope,” I said, closing my eyes to focus on the map that was forming in my mind’s eye. “I’ll go out on a limb here and say that none of the artwork comes from Switzerland, am I right?”

There was a pause; then Hart said, “No. Nothing from Switzerland.”

I opened my eyes and smiled at her. “Everybody trusts the Swiss. Have your contacts work the European trail from the beginning. I’ll bet the first pieces were stolen from countries that surround Switzerland—Austria, Germany, France, and Italy. The trail is also older than anybody realizes. Go back another decade and you’ll start noticing a pattern. I keep seeing a set of skis, so if I were a betting woman, which I am, I’d lay money down that your thieves work at some sort of ski resort, which allows them access to wealthy European clients to target. They’d never hit close to home because that’d be too risky for them, but I’ll bet that every ski season they target a few of these tourists, gather intel on them, and hit their homes a few months later when they can be sure that their vacation to Switzerland won’t seem relevant. If you work this case from both ends, Agent Hart, I’m pretty sure you’ll shut this whole ring down.”

It was her turn to smile at me and just like that, we bonded. “Thank you, Ms. Cooper. That was fairly incredible.”

I chuckled, waving a hand. “Oh, please. This is what I do. I pinpoint directions that’ll lead to results, and when I’m
trusted
, good things can happen.”

Hart’s gaze shifted slightly to her boss across the table, and a flush touched her cheeks. I had a feeling she’d disobeyed orders by bringing in an actual, bona fide case for me to look at and
not some lame photo and bio in a folder. I declined to look at Rivera but turned to one of the last agents I hadn’t yet spoken to. Motioning to the thin file in front of him, I said, “Want me to take a look?”

Before he could answer, the door opened and in stepped a giant of a man. I pegged him to be perhaps a little over six and a half feet tall. He literally ducked to come in the door. His features were square and there was a hardness to him that made me want to back away a little from his presence.

He had large hands to go with his big frame, but he didn’t move like the extra body mass was hard to lug around. In fact, I was surprised to see a bit of grace in his movements as he shut the door and walked to the head of the table. “Agents,” he said to the group still gathered at the table. “I’d like a word with Ms. Cooper, please.”

I recognized the voice as that of Director Whitacre. I hadn’t been prepared for someone so tall and imposing, and it took a minute for me to mentally reconcile his image with that of Director Gaston, who was fairly short as men go, right around five-eight or thereabouts.

Still, there was a little something extra to both men that couldn’t be measured with a yardstick, and that was an essence of authority that permeated the space around them. Gaston had a little extra essence on Whitacre, I noticed, but maybe that was because Gaston was perhaps the more dangerous of the two. I had no doubt that Gaston had used deadly force when he worked for the CIA. I also had no doubt, in fact, that when ordered to, he’d killed quickly, quietly, and most efficiently and he hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep over it.

I liked Gaston. A lot. But I was also a teensy bit terrified of him.

Whitacre scared me only because he could cause damage to
my husband’s career and that of my friend if he wanted to. There was reason to be cautious and careful around him, but not in a way that would make me sleep with one eye open.

The agents got up and began to abandon the room. Perez was the second-to-last person through the door, and just as he was about to pass Whitacre, the taller man put a hand on his elbow to stop him for a moment, then bent to whisper something in his ear. Perez nodded, then continued out with Rivera on his heels, finally leaving me alone with Whitacre.

The second the door closed, I began to feel out the director’s energy, which might’ve been an invasion of privacy, but he was the one testing me, so I figured I had the right. “Director,” I said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Whitacre stood above me—an intimidation tactic for sure. I did my best not to look the least bit afraid, and a slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Ms. Cooper,” he said. “Thank you for coming out to L.A. on such short notice.”

“Least I could do to save my job and those of my husband and boss, Director.”

The slight smile got a teensy bit wider. “There’s been a lot of chatter about you,” he said, moving to the chair opposite mine and taking a seat. “Bill Gaston has taken a pretty good ribbing from the rest of us.”

“Not surprising,” I said, because it wasn’t.

“He practically dared me to put you to the test,” he continued.

When he didn’t say anything after that, I said, “And?”

“And that display in here was, at the very least, impressive.”

I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms, then looked around the room. No obvious sign of a camera, so I tilted my chin and eyed the corners. The cameras were small, hardly noticeable, and tucked into all four corners. I had no doubt that
there were hidden microphones about the room too. “Thanks,” I said before resting my elbows on the table and lacing my fingers together. “Now what?”

Before Whitacre could answer me, we heard a buzz and he looked down at his belt. Lifting his cell phone, Whitacre answered the phone and said, “Yes?” There was a long pause, during which the director smiled again, adding a small shake to his head, and he finally said, “Very good, Hector. That’s excellent news.” He then hung up the phone and said, “You were right about Chelsea Brown. She’s pregnant.”

That ignited a little fire in my belly again. “You need to talk to Perez,” I told him. “Chelsea Brown has done nothing wrong. I don’t even think she’s connected to anyone who’s committed a crime. She seems totally clean and all her associates seem . . .” My voice trailed off as I expanded my intuitive view of Chelsea. I saw a badge and a wedding ring. “Crap,” I said with a shake of my own head when the obvious hit me. “I missed that one. She’s married to Perez.”

Whitacre tapped the table. “Yes,” he said, clearly amused. “And Agent Perez had no idea of the surprise waiting for him when he got home tonight. He told me that Chelsea had planned to tell him over dinner.”

“Well, I’m only sorry that I ruined her surprise. I’m not sorry about calling Perez out on his fabricated file. I mean seriously, sir, I’m used to being tested, but if someone like Director Gaston wants to vouch for me, don’t you think that’s worth at least a
little
courtesy at our first meet and greet?”

Whitacre appeared to consider that. For a long time. Finally, he held up his hands in apology and said, “You’re right. I know and respect the hell out of Bill. Which is why his championing of you has seemed so out of character. He’s far too smart to be taken in by a charlatan. At least, that’s what we all thought until
conversations of you came up. But he’s sworn all along that the reason his team in Austin closes so many cold cases is because of your influence. And the numbers have been consistent for the past two years now, ever since that office opened. The stats are impressive to say the least, and Bill’s peers and superiors have all been asking how he’s doing it. He’s never tried to hide the fact that he employs a psychic. Learning that you’re also married to one of his top field agents made us even more curious, and I was the one to volunteer for a demonstration.”

That wasn’t quite the apology I was looking for, but maybe I’d have to pick my battles while I was on loan. “Okay,” I said. “So, assuming I’ve passed the test, how about you let me look at a real case or two? You know, so that I can tell Harrison that I played nicey-nice with the other agents.”

Whitacre stood up. “Agent Hart already brought you one of those, Ms. Cooper. I don’t know what you said to her on the way up here, but whatever it was convinced her not to use the dummy folder I’d had her prepare for your audition. As for the other cases I’d like you to look at, I think we can start on those tomorrow. I’ll need to speak to the other agents privately now. You know, to settle a few ruffled feathers.”

I understood he was specifically referring to Agent Robinson, but maybe I’d ruffled a few other feathers too. I’m really good at that, actually. I’ve got “make ’em mad” skills, I tell ya.

Getting to my feet, I said, “Sounds good. What time would you like me to come back in the morning, Director?”

“Nine a.m.,” he said, moving ahead of me to open the door for us. As I passed through the doorway, he added, “I hope you won’t mind working late this week, Ms. Cooper. I have a feeling we’ll be running quite a few cases by you.”

Freaking perfect. There went much of my free time. “Not at all, Director. See you in the morning.”

With that, I left him and, once at the elevator, I dialed Candice. “Sundance,” she said smoothly. “How goes it?”

“Great!” I lied. “We got along so well they’ve asked me out for drinks and nachos.”

Candice laughed. She knew when I was kidding. “It went that well, huh?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Who could possibly resist your charms?”

“Riiiiight? Anyway, I don’t think I’m gonna go. You know how these L.A. people can be.” The woman in business attire next to me in the elevator offered me a sideways glare. I smiled sweetly and added, “Yep. I’m just making new friends everywhere I go!”

“How about if
I
take you out for drinks and nachos and you can tell me all about it?” Candice asked.

I gave in to a sigh of relief. “There’s a reason you’re my best friend. See you in half an hour?”

“Deal.”

•   •   •

C
andice had done her homework, and by homework, I mean she’d scoured Yelp for the best nachos in all of L.A. and found
the
place to eat them. The restaurant was called Tinga—a relatively small eatery with tons of character, bright colors, funky lighting, and some
seriously
fine nachos.

Over a plate of said seriously fine, I told Candice all about the meet and greet at the L.A. office, emphasizing the many ways I felt I’d been mistreated and disrespected. At the end, she wadded up her napkin and tossed it on the table. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re so worked up. You knew they were probably gonna try to trip you up, right?”

“Of course I knew. But that doesn’t mean that they had to treat me like I was a joke from the get-go, does it, Candice? In the end it’s a choice to either treat me like a human being with some pretty great credentials and offer me a little respect for our first introduction or to be total douchewaddles, as you so elegantly put it. And I wasn’t naive about how this was going to go. Of course I was expecting them to bring a healthy dose of skepticism, but not all the judgmental condescending bullshit, which they didn’t even try to hide, I might add. I mean,
how about you be polite, courteous, professional, and let me look at an actual active case file before you start deciding what I’m all about? Coming into that meeting all assholes a-blazing put me immediately on the defensive.”

“Oh, I think you were already on the defensive.”

I frowned at her but had to consider that. “You may have a point. But they still didn’t have to be so shitty about it.”

“Of course they did,” she countered. “Abs, this is L.A. There’s a psychic on every street corner and most of them suck. You know that.”

“Yeah, but
I
don’t, Candice!” I snapped. “And it’s not just my word they had to take into account. It’s the
entire
Austin bureau
and
Director Gaston!”

Candice let me verbally thrash around in frustration for a bit longer before she looked at me sadly and said, “Abby, no one wants everyone to accept you more than the people who know you and love you, but the world isn’t ready for someone like you. You’re asking not just this person or that person to change their approach to you, but the entire planet to come at you differently. What you don’t get is that you
are
different from most everyone you meet, and that’s why they’re wary when you first tell them you’re psychic. They don’t know anything about what that actually means or if you’re perhaps certifiably crazy. And while I can’t imagine what it’d be like to exist in a place where I’m constantly judged, underestimated, and maligned, I think that this frustration you have over wanting the whole world to approach you differently could eat you up pretty good if you let it.”

My defenses were still up. “So I should just
let
them treat me that way? I should just accept it and not allow it to affect me?!”

“Yes,” she said.

My jaw dropped and I stared at her in stunned silence.

Candice reached forward and put a hand on my arm,
squeezing gently. “Sundance,” she began, “whatever opinions, thoughts, or preconceived notions other people have of you, they’re
other
people’s stuff. You don’t own
any
of that. You only own your stuff. It’s not up to you to fix, resolve, or change other people’s minds or even prove to them that you’re the real deal. It’s only up to you to be
you
. And you are the best you that I know, and I’m damn proud to be your friend.”

I looked down at Candice’s hand on my arm. “It’s just so hard to walk into all that doubt, Candice. It was so hostile in there.”

She squeezed her grip a little to reassure me. “I totally get it. But you know you don’t have to mirror that attitude, right? I mean, wouldn’t it be better to be your own dazzling portrait rather than someone else’s reflection, Abby?”

She paused for effect and I had to admit that her analogy struck a deep chord with me. I wanted to respond to that, but Candice wasn’t quite finished doling out the wisdom, and she continued by saying, “If you can simply allow everyone else to think or feel about you how they will, it will free you up completely to just be you and not the mirror image of the person you’re busy sniping back at. And, just so you know, girl, you’re not so bad to hang out with when you’re not in the mood to rip someone’s head off their shoulders.”

I offered her a crooked smile. “I can be delightful. . . .”

“Yes. Yes, you can. You can also be a total pain in the ass. The choice to be one or the other is completely up to you. What you need to understand is that it costs you less overall to remain unfazed by whatever attitude someone else wants to throw at you while you’re simply being you.”

I heard everything that Candice was saying and I grudgingly had to admit that she made a whole lotta sense. I was super thin-skinned. I got that from being told I was less than acceptable and totally unwanted by parents who
never
should’ve
had children. The adult me (over)reacted to nearly every perceived slight because I was always walking around on the defensive. I found plenty of people willing to slight me, too, and I wondered if maybe I’d brought a lot of that on myself.

Mentally I went back over the meeting at the L.A. bureau, and I realized that if I hadn’t actually called the agents out on their bullshit, perhaps I could’ve ingratiated myself with them by simply giving them my feedback without all the verbal finger-pointing and crying foul.

“You’re right,” I said at last. “I mean, I hate to admit it, but you really are right.”

Candice beamed. “I never get tired of hearing that.”

“So, what do you think I should do to repair things?” I asked her, realizing I had two weeks ahead of me that were already off to a bad start.

“That’s the best part. You don’t have to do much of anything other than be yourself.”

“Really?” I said. “You don’t think I should try to mend fences or apologize or anything?”

“Nope. What’s done is done. Plus, these guys don’t need to hear an apology, which I don’t really think you owe them anyway. In fairness to you—they did start it. But that only means that it’ll be easier for you to walk in there, head held high, and get to work doing what you do. Everyone who works with you eventually comes around, Sundance. Just focus on being the amazing psychic you are, and the rest will follow.”

“You make it sound easy,” I said.

“It’s as easy as focusing on what’s important. The cases are the thing you came here to work on, so get to work on them.”

“I’m also supposed to teach these agents about harnessing their own intuitive gifts to make them better investigators,” I reminded her.

“You can work on that next week,” Candice said easily. “This week, it’s all about the caseload.”

*   *   *

M
ost of that night, I thought about everything that Candice had said to me. No surprise, I didn’t sleep well. Her words about being my own portrait instead of somebody else’s reflection kept reverberating through my mind. I’ve been picked on and bullied a
lot
in my life, and when faced with a new, possibly hostile situation, I tend to shoot first and ask questions and bury the dead bodies later.

What Candice had so kindly pointed out was that not every new encounter with disbelieving jerkholes had to be the O.K. Corral. I could meet fire with apathy. After a while and some practice, I might even be able to meet it with compassion, understanding, and empathy.

So, the next morning when I again arrived at the bureau and was met by Agent Hart, I was all smiles and relaxed attitude. “Good morning, Agent Hart,” I said. “How’re you?”

“I’m very well, Ms. Cooper, thank you for asking,” she said warmly while motioning toward the elevators. “And thank you also for your insights yesterday. I did some preliminary checking and discovered that Grecco offers some of his wealthier clients a bottle of rare wine as a thank-you for their purchase. A few of those clients he’s offered to sell even rarer vintages to.”

There was a slight gleam in Hart’s eye when she revealed that to me, and I suddenly put together why. “Let me guess,” I said. “Grecco doesn’t have a license to sell liquor.”

She winked at me. “Bingo.”

“So you can obtain a warrant on that alone and dig into his records and the wine he sells.”

“Yes,” she said, that gleam in her eye brightening even more.
“I’m going to arrest him later this morning after the judge signs the warrant. The local authorities will be working jointly with us on this, and we’ll search his home and gallery thoroughly for evidence of more crimes.”

“He’s tricky about the wine,” I said as my radar pinged. “He keeps it belowground.”

“I’ve learned that the house he owns has a wine cellar.”

“Those are rare in California, right?”

“Generally,” Hart said, pushing the button for the elevator. “The hardest part may be finding the wine cellar. We have only a suggestion from the archives that the old home, once owned by Errol Flynn, has a hidden wine cellar.”

“Ah,” I said, stepping onto the elevator when the doors opened. “Well, good luck with that.”

Hart stood next to me and eyed me sideways. “I was thinking . . . ,” she said.

I chuckled. “You want me to come with you to help you find it.”

“The director said it would be fine to take you if you’d agree to go.”

“I’m game,” I said, happy to have at least one ally in the office.

“Perfect,” Hart said. “Oh, and Rivera wanted a moment of your time. You’re set to meet with him first.”

“Not Whitacre?” I asked.

“No, he’s headed to Arizona this morning. One of his SAICs had a heart attack last night and Whitacre went to see about her and assess the situation.”

My radar pinged again and I frowned. “Oh,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t think she’ll pull through. Her situation looks very grave.”

Hart stared at me in shock. “Sara’s going to die?”

“You know her personally?”

“I do, but not well,” she said, still looking stunned. “We met a decade ago at a conference where she gave a speech about the difficulties of being a female agent at the bureau. The ratio back then was eight to one. Today it’s better, about six to one, but still not great. Anyway, I approached Sara—Agent Barlow—after her speech, and we struck up a conversation and even had dinner together at the end of the conference. We kept in touch here and there. I sent her congratulations on her post as the SAIC in Phoenix; she sent me one when I received a commendation. I’d call us friendly acquaintances at best, but I’ve always admired her. I can’t believe she won’t recover. She’s still relatively young.”

I tapped my chest. “Her heart hasn’t been well for a while,” I said. “The stress of the job and genetics feel like they finally caught up to her.”

Agent Hart dropped her gaze to the floor, and I felt bad that I’d sprung the dismal prediction on her.

A moment later the doors opened and, before we got out, I placed a hand on her arm and said, “I’m really sorry. If it helps, I don’t think she’s even aware anymore. She feels very distant from her body right now.”

Agent Hart nodded and we stepped out. We walked in silence along the same route we’d taken the day before, but as we were approaching the conference room, Agent Kim came up to us, wiggling his phone. “The director sent an update on Barlow’s condition,” he said. “Sorry, Kelsey, it doesn’t look good.”

“Thanks, Lee,” she said. “I already heard it was bad.” For emphasis, Hart looked at me.

Kim seemed to register that I’d been the one to tell Hart
about Barlow, because his mouth formed an O and then he backed carefully away, as if he didn’t want to catch my cooties.

I felt a flame of anger ignite in my chest, but Candice’s sage words from the night before came back to me. In my mind’s eye I saw a painting of myself, wearing a pleasant expression, set next to a mirror, which reflected a fearsome creature similar to an Orc from
The
Lord of the Rings
. Just like that, I felt the fire die away and I said, “Should we head to the conference room?”

Agent Hart nodded absently. I could tell her mind was still on the special agent in charge in Phoenix. She didn’t say anything further about it, however; instead she led me to the conference room, where I saw that Rivera was already seated and waiting for me. He looked up from his laptop as we entered. “Your warrant just came in, Hart. Gather your team and let me know when you’re ready to go.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She was kind enough to nod to me before she turned and left the room.

Rivera made a motion to the chair I’d occupied the day before and I headed for it. As I took my seat, I concentrated on keeping myself calm and unruffled by remembering the image of the portrait and the mirror in my mind’s eye. When I looked up at Rivera, I thought the technique was working because he was eyeing me curiously and said, “You good, Cooper?”

“I am, sir, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, closing the lid of his laptop to lean forward and rest his elbows on it. “Agent Hart has requested you to go with her to Grecco’s home and help sniff out this wine cellar he’s got hidden somewhere in the house.”

“She briefed me in the elevator, sir.”

“Good. When you get back, I believe Agent Perez and Agent Robinson have a case that they’d like your . . .” Rivera’s
voice trailed off as he seemed to struggle with what to call my intuitive input.

“Insight?” I offered.

“Yes,” Rivera said. “A case requiring your insight.”

“Are you sure Agent Robinson wants my input?”

“I’m sure we’d all like your input on this particular case, Ms. Cooper,” Rivera said, his tone growing a little flinty. He was probably waiting for me to challenge him further, especially after Robinson’s abrupt departure from the room the day before.

“Of course, sir. I’m here to help.”

“Good,” Rivera repeated. There was a small awkward pause; then he said, “Ms. Cooper, I think you should know that, even given that exhibition of yours yesterday, my team remains skeptical.”