Detective Smithy’s smallish face with its slightly askew cop mustache didn’t move much. But when I mentioned the Psychic Hotline, the errant whiskers twitched a little. “Oh?” he said. “What’s the surprise?”
“I’m really good at what I do.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said, and this time his mustache didn’t twitch. “May I ask who hired you?”
“Peter Laurie.”
He stared at me. “Peter Laurie hired you?”
“Yes.”
“The father of the victim?”
“Yes.”
He continued staring at me long and hard and I sensed that something was amiss. Now he drummed his fingers and looked down at the file. He tilted his head a little and, there, his mustache actually looked straight.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“There are many things wrong about the case, except I’m not at liberty to discuss them with you, Ms. Lopez.”
“Peter said he was going to call you and give you permission to talk to me.”
“Did he now?” said the detective.
“Yes. Didn’t he call you?”
Detective Smithy held my gaze again, and I sensed a small energy shift in him. From one of rigidness and professionalism, to openness. He took in a lot of air, then finally nodded. “Yes, he did.”
“And he said that you could speak to me.”
“Yes, he did.”
I sensed some of the detective’s misgivings here. I said, “Except, of course, it’s not his place to tell you who you can and can’t talk to.”
“True enough.”
“But I want you to know that he did hire me—or tried to hire me. I told him I wouldn’t take his money.”
“How did you meet Mr. Laurie?”
“He called the Psychic Hotline.”
“Did he request you specifically?”
I thought of Conn’s efforts to reach me and nearly smiled. Instead, I shook my head and said, “You get who you get. It’s all very random.”
I thought of Millicent and wondered if she had something to do with my chance meeting with her son. I was betting that she had.
“I see,” said the detective. “And you proceeded to meet with him later?”
“Yes, at his home. He showed me his daughter’s room.”
“Did he mention if any new evidence had come to light?”
“No. He just wanted a new...perspective on the case. I think I can give him that.”
“Of course,” said Detective Hill.
“You don’t believe me,” I said.
“I’m not sure what to believe, Ms. Lopez.”
“Just give me a chance to help.”
He looked at me sideways, fingers still drumming the case file, mind turning over rapidly, no doubt. Finally, he nodded. I sensed him tuning out, and about to shut me out, so I plunged in:
“I assure you, Detective. I’m good at what I can do, and I think I can help. I think I was meant to help, too.”
He looked like a man who was certain he was about to make a very bad decision. Finally, reluctantly, painfully, he nodded. “Okay. Let’s see what you can do, kiddo.”
“Kiddo?”
“It’s cop speak.”
I smiled, and so did he. When he smiled, a few of the errant whiskers literally pointed directly at me. He said, “I’ve never worked with a psychic on a murder investigation.”
“And I’ve never worked with a cop on one, either.”
“I suppose I should give you access to this file, except that it’s against the law for me to do so.” He drummed his fingers on the file, thought about it. Then told me he would have his secretary sum up the file for me. I told him that was good enough.
“Come by tomorrow and it will be ready for you.”
“Thank you, detective.”
“What can I say? I’ll do anything to catch this piece of shit. He destroyed a whole family. Perhaps many families.”
On that note, he got up and led me over to the door. Once there, he said, “How is Peter doing these days? I haven’t seen him since his wife died.”
“Not good,” I said. “Not good at all.”
Detective Smithy was one inch taller than me. He held my gaze. Somehow, his cop mustache held my gaze, too. “No,” he finally said, “I don’t suspect he is.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Hi, this is Allison. Thank you for calling The Psychic Hotline. How can I help you see into the future?”
“Oh, thank the good lord in heaven,” said Conn, and he sounded truly relieved.
“More than nine tries this time?” I asked. As I spoke, I immediately linked-up to him psychically. In a matter of moments, I saw him in my mind’s eye sitting on his outdoor deck, this time in a robe and slippers. His robe was mostly closed. Conn had a majestic view of the Pacific Ocean. His home was surely worth millions.
I wondered if he knew that I could see him. Or, at least, suspected that I could see him. We’d never discussed my particular psychic strengths. In fact, we rarely, if ever, talked about anything psychic.
“Try twenty times,” he said. He reached for a cup of coffee, sipped it. The coffee swirled with cream. Far below his house, along the beach, I heard people laughing and playing. What a life.
“Boy, you must really like talking to me,” I said.
“You have no idea,” he said.
“But why?” I asked. “Why do you keep calling me? We’ve never met. You have no idea what I look like.”
“Before I answer that, can I ask if we are alone on the line?”
Good question. I did a quick scan and I felt that we were indeed alone. “We’re good,” I said. “So what gives?”
“You have a nice voice,” he said.
“And that was enough?”
“That was a start,” he corrected. “Do you remember why I called you initially?”
“It was about your mother,” I said. “She’d recently passed.”
“Yes, I had asked if you could tell me if she was okay. And you told me something I’d never expected to hear from an online psychic.”
We were both silent. I remembered, of course, exactly what I had said. I waited for him, and as I did so, I felt a very, very loving energy wash over me.
“You said,” he continued, “and I quote: ‘I don’t know.’”
He was right, of course. I didn’t know. I’d never fancied myself a medium. I was primarily a remote viewer, with growing abilities in other areas. But, so far, no growth in medium-ship.