You weren’t supposed to give money to street people. It was a safe bet that the cash would be wasted on booze or some other form of self-medication. But it was always possible that the sleeper was one of those unfortunates who had been saddled with a strong psychic talent that eventually drove him to alcohol and the streets. If enough people labeled you crazy, the prediction usually came true.
He walked past the sleeper, heading for the locked wrought-iron gate that secured the side entrance closest to his room. Who was he to deny the sleeper whatever it took to dull the sharp edges? After the really bad cases, he went home and used a little scotch and solitaire to hold the visions at bay, himself.
He switched his thoughts back to Raine. Objectively speaking, it was probably a good thing that she had not invited him to spend the night. He needed to do some serious thinking. That didn’t make the prospect of going upstairs to an empty bed any more appealing but it did force him to concentrate on the job.
First on the list of priorities that night was a call to Fallon Jones. It was unlikely that the news of Wilder’s affair with Vella Tallentyre all those years ago would affect the current situation but it constituted a missing fact in the file. Fallon should be made aware of it. He was forever harping on how even a tiny, seemingly insignificant detail could ripple through a case and cause an explosion. Chaos theorists called it the butterfly effect.
Tiny, seemingly insignificant details.
Small details like the sole of a new, clean, expensive running shoe poking out from beneath a blanket of newspapers.
He heard the faint indication of movement behind him even as he started to turn around.
The sleeper was wide awake, coming up off the bench like a striking cobra. The blanket and newspapers fell away, revealing an elderly woman with a helmet of gray curls. She wore a baggy, flower-print dress. In her right hand she gripped a small, folded umbrella.
The frail senior citizen launched herself in a low, preternaturally fast rush, the point of the umbrella extended and aimed like a rapier at his midsection.
Twenty-two
“It was for the best.” Raine switched on the automatic kettle, leaned back against the counter and looked down at Batman and Robin. “Last night in Shelbyville was just one of those things. It shouldn’t be allowed to happen again. Can’t let physical attraction interfere with this investigation.”
Robin twitched one ear but on the whole did not seem interested in her analysis of the decision not to invite Zack into the condo. Batman was focused on the large ceramic biscotti jar. Andrew had given it to her. It was decorated with a cheerful blue-and-yellow Raffaellesco design and was one of the few touches of exuberance among her otherwise minimalist furnishings.
She filled a tea strainer with some of the herbal tisane that she purchased from a local tea shop. The voices would be back tonight. It usually took a few days before they finally dissolved into the dark swamp where such memories were stored.
She was in her nightgown and robe. The lights throughout the condo were turned down low. A Mozart concerto played softly in the background. Mozart usually worked. What worked even better was the loud, head-banging rock music played at Pandora’s favorite nightspot, Café Noir. But she didn’t feel like calling up her assistant and asking if she wanted to go to Noir. She wanted to be by herself for a while and contemplate all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.
“Life, as we know it, is changing,” she said to the cats. “Got to stay in control here.”
Batman meowed softly and continued to stare at the biscotti jar. Robin wandered over and joined him.
She raised the lid of the jar. Robin’s tail flicked. Batman concentrated harder, probably using some kind of weird cat psychic power on her to encourage her to take out a treat. It was working.
“Have you any idea what it was like to finally meet a man who actually understands how it feels to hear the voices in my head?” She selected two of the cat munchies inside the jar and replaced the lid. “Last night was the combined result of the aftereffects of adrenaline and the thrill of knowing there is a sexy man out there who knows I’m psychic and who doesn’t think I’m creepy.”
Batman meowed again.
“Okay, okay.”
She gave the cats their snacks. They set to work on them with polite greed.
The water in the kettle began to boil. She switched off the pot and poured the hot water into a mug. The gentle, soothing aroma of the herbs in the strainer wafted upward.
“One thing about blackjack and sex with Mr. Jones,” she announced to the cats, “they definitely took my mind off the voices last night.”
Batman finished his treat and looked hopeful.
“You know you only get one at night,” she told him.
The cats gave up trying to use their psychic powers on her.
She removed the strainer from the mug and set it on the small dish beside the kettle. Carrying the mug in her right hand, she went into the living room. Her black ballet-style slippers made no sound on the bare hardwood floor.
The translucent origami shapes of the wall sconces cast a subdued glow across the low black leather sofa and chairs. The gas fireplace was outlined in gleaming black tiles. A deck of cards stood waiting on the black granite coffee table. Two elaborately designed climbing trees for the cats, complete with secluded sleeping quarters and a cat gym, stood near the window that overlooked the condo gardens. Batman and Robin liked to look out at the view.
The only colorful objects in the room were the three art glass sculptures. Each was positioned on a white pedestal and lit with a tiny, low-voltage halogen lamp suspended from the ceiling.
Gordon and Andrew complained that the place, with its white walls, uncarpeted floors and black furnishings, looked like a modern art gallery or a meditation center. But she liked the calm, tranquil, uncluttered effect. On bad nights it was an antidote to the voices.
She went to stand at the window, mug in hand, and looked out at the condominium gardens. She wondered if Zack had gone to bed yet or if he was on the phone to Fallon Jones, trying to find out more about what had happened between Wilder and Vella. She could tell the revelation that the two had been involved in an affair had caught him by surprise, just as it had her. He hadn’t been faking it.
A chill sparked down her spine. It was as if someone had touched the nape of her neck with a live wire. The mug in her hand trembled. Several drops of hot liquid dampened her fingers, making her draw a quick, startled breath. Some of the tisane splattered on the hardwood floor.
“Oh, damn.”