Demon Song

Mickey had a wife, Molly, and two daughters: Beverly, aged twelve, and Julie, who was eight. They lived in a comfortable home in Fool’s Rush, Arkansas, where Mickey was a law clerk for the local county judge. Molly ran a diner she’d inherited from her parents, and the girls were above-average students. “Okay, so pretty normal people.” I flipped the dozen pages. I didn’t want to sit here and read while Shawn stared at me. “Give me the condensed version.”



“Sure,” he said with a nod. He settled back into the seat and interlocked his fingers over his stomach, his arms resting comfortably on the padded rests. “I checked all the obvious connections first. Vicki is English on her mother’s side and, despite the surname, German on her father’s. Cassandra Meadows can trace her lineage to the Mayflower and, trust me, a thousand fans have done so quite convincingly. Jason Cooper’s grandfather emigrated from Germany after the First World War—the family surname was formerly Braun. Nobody really knows how or why the name was changed at Ellis Island, but it appears the government had something to do with it. I’ll have to do more checking, but it looks like Franz Braun was a chemical scientist and our government wanted something he’d invented.” That piqued my curiosity and I began to ask questions, but Shawn held up a hand bearing a rather heavy gold wedding ring to stop me. “That doesn’t really matter right now, because Mickey Murphy’s family comes from old Irish stock. Molly is apparently quite the amateur genealogist and was happy to show me the scrapbooks she’s put together.”



Since the investigation had been requested in front of Mr. Murphy, it seemed logical to have Shawn interview them openly. “Mickey’s multi-great-grandfather came to this country to help the colonists fight England. He used his salary to bring his wife and kids over. No prior trips to either Germany or England and I can’t find anything to indicate that the Murphys or DeVeres—Molly’s family—ever mingled or crossed paths with the Coopers or Meadowses. Of course there could be something that I missed, since I’m not a specialist in such things. I hope it’s okay that I subcontracted out part of the search to a company that specializes in lineage searches.”



I like it when investigators don’t try to reinvent the wheel. Find people who do the specific job, pay them, and get back to work. “No problem at all. Is the information in here to give to the attorney?”



He nodded. “At this point, I’m wondering how you want me to proceed. I could sit back and wait for the genealogy report, or look for something in the present time that directly ties Ms. Cooper to the Murphys. It could be as simple as them meeting at some point in the past that she didn’t consciously remember. A flat tire he helped fix, a really good meal at Molly’s diner, who knows? Finding that out would require lots of interviews and time on the road. And it might turn up nothing. Ultimately, how much money do you want to throw at this?”



Well, Vicki could be absentminded. It was the mark of clairvoyants that they could disappear into the future and totally forget what was happening in the present. So it might well be that simple. “Speaking of being on the road, the summer after college Vicki took a long trip to ‘find herself.’ She rented a car and drove from her mother’s place in New York to her own home, California. I’d gotten the impression at the time that it was a fast trip, just a few days. But maybe it had taken longer. Maybe things happened that she just didn’t remember, a hundred visions and a half decade later.”



He tilted his head with an odd look and pulled a pad from his pocket. “First time I’m hearing that, and I spent a couple of hours talking to her parents.” His pen tapped on the page. “New York to California, huh? A lot of ground to cover in a couple of days. Do you remember anything she told you? You were best friends even then, right? Did she rave or rant about anything?”



“No, I just remember her mentioning what she called her senior trip. I’ll work on it overnight. Maybe something will pop into my head.”



He tapped the pen on the pad for a moment and then nodded. “Okay. But it could be the key to everything, so think really hard. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Same time?”



I flipped the calendar a day and then checked my watch. It was nearly noon. My only morning appointment was at ten. “How about eleven? My afternoon’s packed, and I might need driving time.”



Shawn pulled out his BlackBerry and punched the screen a few times. “Done and done.” He stood up and pointed the pen at me. “Think hard,” he repeated. “This could be the difference between a short search and one that takes years.”



I agreed. “I’ll pull out all the stops. I promise.” I desperately hoped I wasn’t lying, but I feared I might be. I did know a couple people who might be able to help, but it was a long shot at best.



He let himself out while I gathered together my purse and car keys. Moments later I walked past the front desk, mulling over the dozen things I still needed to do today, like remember to look for the fly in my car. I held out a hand expectantly and, as always, Dawna responded by stuffing a stack of messages into it.



Muttering, “Thank you,” as I reached for the doorknob, I was startled when Dottie’s voice stopped me: “Sunscreen?”



Dawna added a reminder: “Umbrella?”



Crap. I’d forgotten to slather myself up before heading outdoors. Again. Guess I was still tired from the night’s activities.…



“Thank you, ladies.” Shaking my head, I started back upstairs. My makeup had a 50 SPF built in, but I’d only put it on my face, not arms, hands, or neck. Yes, it was winter, but it’s also California. So far I hadn’t turned to ash in the sunlight like most vampires. But I burn like nobody’s business. Just getting to my car, the morning after I was turned, left me with second-degree burns. They heal, but they hurt as bad as falling asleep on the beach for the afternoon.



“Here. I bought extra for the front desk. For ‘weather emergencies.’ ” Dawna held out a bright orange and blue tube. Like the makeup, it had the highest possible SPF.



A sigh slipped out of me. “You’re the best, girlfriend. Sorry I’ve become such a pain in the butt.”



She waved a hand at me with a “pshaw” expression. “You’ve always been a pain in the butt, girl. Just new and different kinds lately.” Dottie chuckled but kept her eyes on the computer screen. “It keeps our relationship … spicy. Like my grammy always says, spend your time with those who challenge you.”



Dawna’s grandmother is a tiny little Vietnamese woman who met and fell in love with an American soldier who protected their village for a week against tough odds after his squad was killed. He married her and brought her back to his home because he said she made the best ph this side of heaven. I agreed. It was “grab your tongue and throw it to the floor” good. She said she married him because he was smarter than she was. I wasn’t sure I agreed.



I squeezed a glop of white lotion into my palm, letting the coconut and other scents take me to a happier time, when all I had to worry about was off-center tan lines. “Did I ever thank her for the last batch of phở, by the way?”



Her brow furrowed and lips pursed. “Don’t remember. But I’m sure I did for you. I should ask her to make another batch. That woman loves to cook and nothing in the world makes her happier than to be asked to do it.”



I slathered the lotion on all bits of exposed skin, including my ears, before handing back the tube. “Thanks. All set now. Or have I forgotten anything?”



The two women looked at each other. “Nothing I can think of offhand,” Dawna said. “What did Alex tell you about the sniper who tried to take off your head at the Will reading? I know they caught him, but did they ever find out why he was shooting at you or who he worked for? She wouldn’t tell me squat.”



I swore under my breath because it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask. “No. But I’ll ask her when I talk to her tomorrow.” I glanced at the person in the waiting room, probably a client of Ron’s, who raised his head at the mention of the word “sniper.” I really didn’t want to talk any more about it with people listening. “Thanks for the reminder.” It’s sad when a sniper who’d tried to put three bullets into your brain slips your mind. For most people, it would possess their every waking moment. For me, it was a humdrum daily event.



Sad, that. I need better days.



On the way to my car, I flipped through the messages using one hand and my lips because the other hand was holding the umbrella. Most were from existing clients asking if I was available for certain dates and times. I wouldn’t know until I checked my calendar, so I tucked those in my pocket. As I unlocked the driver’s door, one of the messages caught my eye and made me nearly drop the umbrella. I did drop the car keys.



The message was from John Creede:



You didn’t have to return the fly, but the report gave me a lot of information. Thanks. But you’re not off the hook for dinner.



What the hell?



No wonder I couldn’t find the fly. Someone had delivered it to Creede. And while it was nice the fly had found its way back home, that meant … crap!



I picked up my car keys and raced back into the building. Both women looked up and Dawna opened her mouth. I shook my head frantically, holding a finger over my lips. Dottie looked around as if she thought something was going to jump out of the shadows. I grabbed a pen and reached for the spiral-bound message book.



Call Justin. Have him come and do a FULL sweep for bugs. The roaches seem to have especially big ears upstairs.



I turned the book so they both could see it. Dawna stared at the message, mouthing the words several times. On the surface, it seemed like I was asking them to call an exterminator because of an infestation. And I was. Except Justin didn’t work for Orkin. He was our security consultant. The “bugs” I was worried about were of the electronic variety. Only Creede and I had been in the room when he’d handed me the fly and asked for a report, and I sure as hell hadn’t mentioned that to Jones. Okay, it was possible that I’d talked while under the influence at the safe house. Possible, but unlikely. Former torturers would agree that I’m hard to break. Those who are still alive, anyway.