Four
OFF THE CASE
I GUESS IT’S time for a confession from me.
It’s not the easiest thing in the world for me to admit, but for the sake of full disclosure... I already knew there was something different about me.
Before Quentin Black, I mean.
One way to put it might be this: ever since I was a kid, I’d known things that most people didn’t know. Things a lot of people would argue I couldn’t know.
Things others would say I shouldn’t know.
When I was a kid, the tough part wasn’t figuring out that I knew those things. The hard part––the part that caused me the most confusion and loneliness and grief––was figuring out that most people didn’t know those things.
Thank God I had my sister Zoe.
Maybe that’s why I missed her so much now. She’d been like me, too. We practically had our own language growing up, since it was through her as much as on my own that I realized how “different” we were from other kids.
Even so, I was the oldest, so I learned a lot of those lessons first. Like, for example, how mentioning anything I heard or saw in other people’s minds would get me a lot of blank stares, cocked eyebrows, deafening silences... and fear.
Mostly fear.
Including from our own parents.
I learned to keep my mouth shut about what I could feel, sense... and yes, sometimes hear... off the minds of people around me. I taught Zoe the same, once I knew she was like me. It was a survival skill we both learned young.
Moreover, it wasn’t enough to simply not mention that we could hear and see those things. We also had to be extremely careful not to act on the things we knew, at least those things where a reasonable explanation couldn’t be found for how we knew them. We had to be extremely careful not to change our behavior in incriminating ways.
Sometimes that was really, really hard to do.
It got a lot harder after Zoe died.
It also got a lot more lonely.
Psychology was a logical choice for me in school, for that reason alone. If I could figure out how regular people worked, I’d be able to fit in with them easier. It’s also why I would have preferred doing pure research, as opposed to getting paid to sit and listen to people lie to me all day while I had to smile and nod politely and pretend not to notice.
I hated even the word “psychic,” much less all the New Agey crap associated with it.
But yeah, I guess it fits.
I, Miriam Kimi Fox, am a psychic.
Truthfully, the thought gives me hives.
It was a lot easier to bear when Zoe and I could joke about it. Since Zoe died, I’d run into other so-called “psychics” over the years too, of course. Fortunately, most of them had absolutely no idea what I was.
In fact, before Quentin Black, I only remember one woman who stared at me particularly hard, then asked me what the hell I was doing with my mind. She complained that she couldn’t read a damned thing off me. She was an older woman, kind of witchy in terms of her clothes and her long braided gray hair and all the crystals she wore.
She was also really blunt.
She told me there was something very different about me. She also said, somewhat accusingly as I recall, that all she saw around me was a bunch of “smokescreen bullshit” I’d put up to hide my mind from anyone who might be looking.
She was right, of course.
Because the thing with being a mind-reader is this: even if you sort of know no one else can probably do it, the fact that you can do it makes you paranoid. When I was a kid, especially––before I figured out that those voices and pictures and whispers of emotion didn’t register for the vast majority of normal people––I pretty much assumed any thought I had, I might as well be shouting it in a crowded room.
Since Zoe could hear me, it seemed logical that others could, too.
Perhaps obviously, as a result, being psychic also makes you careful about what you think.
The truth is, you stay paranoid to some degree, even after you figure out that it’s unlikely anyone else will hear you. You still wonder. It still crosses your mind. Like speaking a foreign language around people from another country, you still hesitate now and then, wondering if maybe they do understand you. One or two of them, anyway.
After all, you can.
It stands to reason that others must be able to hear you, too.
Totally opposite to me, most of those other “psychics” I encountered wore their psychic creds loud and proud. Some even made a living at it, hanging the standard glowy handprint on storefront windows and scattering eagle feathers and crystal balls and Buddha statues around their incense-filled caves beyond a purple-curtained door.
Some even worked with the cops like me, although not exactly in the same capacity. None of the ones I ran into had much more than a low-level ability, though. At least not apart from the witchy woman who glimpsed the edges of my shield, and I’d never managed to find her again after that one time we crossed paths.
Some were out-and-out scammers.
I never told anyone but Zoe what I could do. I lived in San Francisco though, so I couldn’t avoid the psychic thing entirely. The yuppie-tech takeover was almost complete at that point, but San Francisco still had the remnants of its New Age hippy culture, especially in some parts of town. So I just ignored it. Played normal.
I was able to ignore it too... the vast majority of the time.
No one could see me. Which was just fine with me.
Another big advantage to having an ability that pretty much no one else has? No one else has any way of knowing you have that ability either.
Well, as long as you keep your mouth shut and act like everyone else.
“HEY, MIRI.”
I looked up, frowning a bit from behind the bluish glow of my laptop screen.
It was the next morning.
Early, like it had been that first day.
Early enough that I was tired, even though I’d at least finished my first cup of coffee. Ian was out of town for work so I’d spent the night alone, which maybe didn’t help. Even though Ian and I still had our own places, we shared a fair bit of closet space and I usually slept at his house in China Beach when he was in town.
Ian and I fought again the night before too... on the phone that is, and mostly about how much he was gone. Now I felt guilty about the argument, in addition to everything else. When I’d woken up about three hours before my alarm went off, I hadn’t been able to get back to sleep, despite working myself hard in sparring class the night before.
Pushing my laptop away from me a little bit, I folded my hands on the top of my desk, quirking an eyebrow at Nick, who stood in the doorway, looking a bit sheepish where he held two large cups of coffee from the Royale Blend.
I didn’t fully buy the “aw shucks” look on his face, but I noted it.
He’d decided to take this approach. I got why he was going this way, but I could clearly see the cop watching me from behind that stare.
I also knew exactly why he was here.
“So,” he said carefully, still lingering by the door. “I think I really do need to boot you off the case, Miri. The wedding one.”
I let out a humorless sound, folding my arms.
Feigning surprise, I smiled at him.
“Oh?” I said only. “How did I get off so easy? You know my birthday’s not for a few more months yet, right?”
There was a silence.
Then Nick grinned.
That time, the relief in his eyes looked and felt a lot more genuine.
He walked over to me at once, plopping one of the coffee cups he carried on my desk next to the laptop before he dumped his muscular bulk into the worn chair that squatted across from my desk. I watched him relax into the dark red leather as it squeaked against his leather-jacketed shoulders.
“I decided to take pity on you,” Nick grinned, after he took off the plastic hood of his coffee cup and balanced the cup between his thighs.
I watched him produce two packets of sugar from the pocket of his jacket and rip off the tops before dumping them into the black coffee.
Coffee was the only time Nick allowed himself sugar.
He was kind of a health nut in most other respects.
“...You’ve clearly got the hots for our clown,” he added, glancing up with a wink as he leaned over to toss the empty sugar packets into my trash bin. “I didn’t want you getting all teary-eyed when they gas his ass at Quentin.” Raising his cup in a mock toast without its plastic lid, he added, “Quentin at Quentin... poetic, don’t you think?”
I knew he was referring to the local federal prison, San Quentin, which was just on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Cute,” I said, giving him a wry smile and leaning back in my own chair. I picked up the cup he’d brought me, smelling it before I took a grateful sip. Smiling when I lowered it, I met his gaze, watching him look at me with that smile still ghosting his face.
“Are you going to tell me the real reason you don’t want me on it, Nick? You got some new hot-shot psych student whose pants you’re trying to inspect?”
He let out a snort of laughter, involuntarily I think.
He nearly coughed out coffee through his nose in the process.
Relief wafted off him tangibly that time, even more than before.
That relief made me relax, too.
I saw his face grow serious, even as he dropped the act he’d used to come in here.
“The guy’s too interested in you, Miri. Way too interested. Frankly, I don’t want him getting another look at you... much less talking to you on a regular basis.” He hesitated, then gave me a more openly apologetic look. “Especially since we might have to cut him loose for awhile... temporarily, I mean.”
I stiffened. “Cut him loose?”
“Yeah. Maybe even later today.” He gave me another apologetic look, but that one had more steel behind it. “Temporarily, like I said. We just need a little more time.”
“Why?” I couldn’t keep the bewilderment out of my voice.
Moreover, my heart was already pounding, remembering how confident Black had been on that point when I’d talked to him in the interview room.
“Fucker lawyered up,” Nick said with a shrug. “He’s got a good one, too.”
“Who?” I knew most of the defense attorneys in town. The good ones anyway.
“Farraday,” Nick said. “You heard of him? Guy’s out of New York... a real ball buster. Made his name in that dual homicide mess with that investment shit-heel a few years back. The one with the crow bar. Remember?”
I nodded. I remembered.
My lips firmed as I still fought puzzlement.
“With the bad toupee, right?” I said, taking another sip of coffee. When Nick grunted a laugh, nodding, I cleared my throat. “I thought he mostly worked for Wall Streeters. How the hell is Black affording him?”
Hesitating another half-second, Nick put his coffee down on the edge of my desk, fishing around in the pocket of his beat-up leather jacket––the opposite pocket from the one where he got his sugar packets. Leaning back over my desk, he tossed something at me, what looked like a rectangular business card. Leaning back in the same motion, he grabbed his coffee cup on the way back to the leather chair. The chair let out a protesting squeak when the two sets of leathers rubbed together a second time.
“Asshole’s a P.I.,” Nick grunted. “Can you believe it?”
I gave him a blank look. “Who?”
“Black. Quentin Black. He’s a P.I. Licensed and everything.”
“He’s a P.I.?” My jaw dropped.
Looking down, I snatched up the business card he’d tossed me.
Nick nodded grimly, watching me look at it. “Rich as fuck, too. Doesn’t even need to work, he’s got so much money... at least if the reports are right. Once Farraday showed, your Mr. Black started singing a different song altogether. Now he claims he was at the scene on a case. Says he stayed silent to ‘await legal advice’ because he knew that circumstantially it looked bad for him. Says he was afraid of jail, afraid he’d say the wrong thing.”
Nick let out an annoyed snort to let me know what he thought of that story.
I was still staring down at the card.
Somehow, the damned thing felt like him... like I could feel some remnant of Quentin Black’s fingertips imprinted on the linen stock.
The card itself was bone white but for a black eagle symbol stamped in the center. The symbol looked almost military, with Quentin Black’s initials worked into the design at the bottom in an archaic-looking script.
Flipping over the card, I found a website address as well as a physical one on California Street. The street number was low enough that it had to be near the water. That placed Mr. Quentin Black’s business offices in some of the most expensive real estate in the world.
His office was on the forty-eighth floor.
I couldn’t even imagine what kind of rent that must be.
I cleared my throat, keeping the disinterested look on my face with an effort.
“How did he explain the blood?” I said, my voice neutral. “He was covered in blood. Did his lawyer have anything on that?”
When I glanced up, Nick scowled.
“He claims he was trying to ‘save’ her,” Nick grunted. “That she was still alive when he got there... barely. He’s not disputing he was there... or that the blood is hers. He says he tried to put pressure on some of the worst cuts to stop the bleeding.”
“What did the coroner say?”
Nick shrugged. “He says it’s possible.”
“Possible?” I frowned. “Likely-possible? Or unlikely-possible?”
“Possible,” Nick said, giving me a harder stare. “Why? You still think he didn’t do it, Miri? Because it’s too ‘theatrical’ for him or whatever?”
I nodded, but not really in answer to his question.
“So?” I said. “Will his story hold up? In court.”
Nick’s scowl deepened. “With his lawyer? Probably. Fucker’s a licensed P.I. We’ve got zilch on motive. He’s got an alibi for the Grace Cathedral thing... including a plane ticket showing he was out of the country. We ran his creds and they’re all up to date. Further, he told us last night that the family of Esther Velaquez hired him a few weeks ago. Now we have to run that down, too, see if we can match it to his story about the Palace killing.”
I nodded, watching his face cautiously.
Esther Velaquez was the primary victim of the first wedding murder. They found her just like this one, with a few inches of make-up on her face and posed in an expensive wedding dress almost like a ballerina. Only she hadn’t been alone. Rather, she’d bled to death inside Grace Cathedral along with five of her wedding party––three bridesmaids and two groomsmen. By far most of the damage in terms of cutting had been done to her, though.
The wedding hadn’t even been scheduled for two months.
All of them had that same spiral symbol cut into their chests. The killer only did it to her while she’d still been alive, however. The rest got it post-mortem.
The story was heartbreaking really. The six of them had gone out to dinner and then to a bar to celebrate. They all left the bar together and no one ever saw them alive again.
By all accounts, Esther had been a kind person, with a lot of friends and family.
The cops speculated that the wedding party might have gone to the cathedral in some connection to the wedding itself, but no one really knew for sure how they’d gotten there. After the Palace killing, it looked less likely that they’d gone willingly.
“How did he explain that he was at the scene at all?” I said, still thinking aloud. “Black. Did he claim to have followed a suspect there?”
Nick’s scowl deepened. “No. He says he and his staff staked out various locations around town, in the hopes of catching the killer in the act. He said he went through a list of ‘most popular wedding sites’ and Grace was first. The Palace of Fine Arts was second. He said it was ‘bad luck’ he got there too late to save her.”
“Did he see who did it?”
Nick shrugged, but I practically felt the anger on him that time.
“He says no. He’s promised to cooperate, says he’ll give us whatever we want in terms of his own investigation. He also claimed he’d been operating on a hunch with the Palace thing or he would have brought us in earlier. He claims he never expected to hit paydirt... not that fast, anyway.”
I nodded, folding my hands across my chest as I studied his eyes.
“But you still don’t believe it?” I said cautiously.
“Fuck no, I don’t believe it!” Nick exploded, staring at me. “Do you?”
I kept my expression clinician smooth. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”
He aimed a finger at me.
That time, the anger practically vibrated off his skin.
“You were there, Miri,” he said. “You saw him in there. Did he look like someone scared to you? Of the police? Of me? Of any of us? Did he strike you as someone likely to ‘cooperate to the full extent of the law’? Who even gave a shit the girl was dead, for that matter?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Is there any reason I should dismiss his explanation out of hand? Is there a more plausible story, given the facts?”
“You think him just happening to be there, trying to save that girl’s life, is more plausible than him getting caught murdering her?”
Thinking about his words, I nodded, telling the truth.
“Frankly? Yes. If the girl’s parents actually hired him, Nick––”
“The whole thing is b.s., Miri... and you know it is!”
Thinking about his words, I shook my head slowly. “Sorry, Nick. I don’t. It’s weird, sure... and his being at the scene definitely makes him a suspect. But as stories go, it’s not entirely implausible either.” I tapped Quentin Black’s business card against the top of my desk. “Maybe you don’t want to admit he might have followed a lead that you missed and it paid off?”
Nick’s complexion darkened. “You yourself said Black’s a fucking sociopath––”
“There are a lot of high-functioning narcissists and people with personality disorders running around who don’t become serial killers, Nick,” I reminded him mildly. “I imagine there are a fairly high number in various forms of law enforcement... as well as in private security. Studies have shown there are certainly a lot running around with big stock portfolios. Without a motive, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t at least entertain his story as the true one.” Clearing my throat, I added, “Anyway, I said I thought he was a sociopath... not that I knew for certain he was one. It’s way too early for me to make a diagnosis like that definitively.”
Pausing, I kept my voice casual.
“What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
“Did you find out anything more about Black? Something you’re not telling me?”
“Like what?”
Shrugging lightly, I kept my voice nonchalant as I took another sip of coffee. “Well. His fingerprints and DNA didn’t show up, even though he’s a P.I... .a licensed P.I., according to you. Did you find out why? Is he ex-intelligence or something? Someone with a high clearance, that they waived that for him?”
Nick stared at me, his dark eyes hard as stones. “Why the fuck would you ask me that?”
I sighed at the wariness in his gaze.
“Nick,” I said, lowering the cup. “I’m about to marry someone in intelligence, remember? And Black pegged me as ex-military less than a minute after I walked through that door. It stands to reason that he might––”
“Okay, okay,” Nick cut in, holding up a hand. He still sounded angry. “And yes. He did a few stints. And yes, Special Forces at the end. Which means it’s all sealed... even to me.” He gave me a more pointed look. “Ian might be able to access it, though.”
I frowned, feeling somehow that the mention of Ian was a little too deliberate.
“He’s out of town,” I said, my frown deepening. “And I wouldn’t count on it anyway, not unless you went through channels. Do you have anyone else you like for this? For the Grace Cathedral killing at least?”
“No,” Nick said, his voice harder.
I sighed for real that time, setting my coffee back on the desk. “What is it with you and this guy, Nick? This isn’t like you. Is it so hard to admit you might have been wrong?”
“It is when I know I’m not wrong.”
I let out a snort, making an I give up gesture with my hands.
Nick continued to glare at me though.
“There’s something not right about this guy, Miri. I know you see it.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “Well, yeah... read between the lines, Nick. He was probably doing wet-work for the U.S. military... for all we know he still is. Of course you’re getting vibes. Has it occurred to you that maybe you just don’t like guys like him?”
When I met Nick’s gaze, his eyes looked positively murderous.
“Do you know this guy, Miri?” he said.
“Know him?” I felt my face grow inexplicably hot. “Black?”
“Yes, Black. Do you know him? Had you met him before yesterday?”
I gaped at him. “Why in God’s name would you think that?”
“It’s a simple fucking question. Are you going to answer it?”
My jaw snapped shut. “No, I don’t know him.” My temper sparked hotter when I felt Nick not believing me. “Just what are you asking me, Nick? Or do I even want to know?”
He didn’t answer at first. When he looked back at me though, his anger hadn’t lessened. If anything, the expression in his eyes looked even colder.
“He’s been asking about you, Miri. A lot.”
I let out an annoyed sound, unimpressed. “And? How is that my fault?”
“He also asked me about Ian. Made a few cryptic fucking remarks I didn’t like much, truthfully. Things that made me wonder if maybe he knew Ian, too.”
I firmed my lips. Raising my hand, I tapped my engagement ring, a perversion of me and Nick’s running joke. I let my hand fall back to the top of my desk.
“He made it clear he noticed the ring, Nick,” I said.
“And?” Nick said. “You fit the victim profile, Miri. He knew Ian’s name. He also knew Ian was a defense contractor. Are you sure all of this isn’t about you?”
It was my turn to stare.
Not about Nick’s revelations about what Black knew, at least not primarily. After all, I was pretty sure I knew exactly how Quentin Black obtained that information.
No, I stared more because it hadn’t even occurred to me until then that I fit the wedding killer’s profile. Ian and I weren’t to be married for another five months, and I’d barely had time to even think about ceremony itself, so maybe that was part of it. With him gone so much lately, a lot of the planning had been put on hold. I didn’t have a living mother to pester me about it, and Ian’s parents were both dead too, so we’d opted for a pretty simple ceremony.
The fact that I fit the victim profile stunned me briefly.
It also made me wonder what Black was up to, grilling Nick about Ian.
Was he threatening me via Nick? I found it hard to believe, although I couldn’t have said why exactly. If he wasn’t threatening me, what the hell was he doing? Why antagonize a homicide cop who likes you for murder? Was Black really that arrogant?
Yes, my mind answered unequivocally. Yes, he really is that arrogant.
I wondered if there was more to it, though. Had he done it simply to rattle Nick, or had it been some kind of message to me? Or was it more to drive a wedge between me and Nick?
Thinking about the possibilities made my face heat again.
Still, if it was anger or something else I felt, I couldn’t decide.
Realizing I’d been staring over Nick’s shoulder while I’d been thinking those things rather than looking at Nick himself, I refocused on his face. Once I did, I found him watching me, that harder, more suspicious scrutiny back in his eyes.
“What the fuck is going on, Miri?” he said. “You’re not telling me something. I want to know what it is.”
I rolled my eyes, annoyed for real that time. “You’re imagining things, Nick––”
He cut me off. “I’m really not. So I’m going to say this once, Miri. Stay the hell away from this asshole. That’s a direct order.”
“An order?” I said, disbelieving. “I’m not in your platoon anymore, Sarg...”
He didn’t flinch. “Order. Threat. Warning. Pick a word. And don’t think I don’t see the wheels turning in that giant brain of yours, Miriam. Don’t think for a single second that I didn’t see it when I told you that asshole was going free today, too...”
Grunting, he rearranged his muscular body in the chair.
“Truthfully, I wasn’t going to give you that damned card,” he muttered, motioning towards my desk. “I was just going to kick you off the case, let you think we were proceeding with Black the same as we would with any other murdering asshole...” Taking a breath, he sank deeper into the leather, planting his hands on the armrests. “...Ian’s going to kill me if I tell him about this, you know. That I let you talk to a fucking serial killer who now has a hard-on for you. An ex-spook who got his record expunged for being a professional murderer...”
Biting my lip at the reference to Ian, I only shrugged.
“So why did you give me the card, Nick?” I said.
He glared at me, then motioned sharply with a hand. “Because for awhile there, you were almost acting like yourself again, Miri...”
“As opposed to what?”
His expression dropped every ounce of sarcasm.
“As opposed to someone who’s lying to me,” he said. Staring at me coldly, he motioned to where I still held Quentin Black’s business card between my fingers, toying with the paper without noticing I was doing it. “I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got some kind of ‘thing’ with this guy. That, or he’s managed to snow you in some way... intrigue you maybe. Maybe it’s some shrink thing... a profile you’ve never seen before. Maybe you liked bantering with a brain even bigger than yours for once. I know that must be a rare experience for you...”
Glaring at me, he made his voice more threatening.
“Or maybe you fucking know him, Miri. Maybe you met him over in the sand pits, on R&R or something. Maybe you slept with him over there... dated him. Played chess with him. Cleaned his rifle. Whatever.”
When I gaped at him, he held up a hand.
“Frankly, I don’t care. That part’s none of my damned business. What I do care about, is that you’re not thinking clearly around him. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
I continued to stare at him, as much in disbelief as anything.
I couldn’t help wondering what Black had said to him. Clearly, he’d said things about me, not just about Ian. Black was feeding this line to Nick that he knew me in some way. But why? What possible motive could he have? And what the hell had he said to rattle Nick like this? To have him looking at me like I was the damned enemy?
For the first time in a long time, I was really tempted to read Nick.
On purpose I mean... something I never did with friends.
I picked up things on accident sure, no matter how much I shielded. But actually going there, trying to get inside a friend’s brain, that was a major no-no for me.
I shoved the fleeting temptation out of my mind the instant it rose.
“Nick,” I said instead, my voice openly puzzled. “You were watching me the whole time I spoke to Black. You practically high-fived me when I came out of there––”
“And you’ve been acting weird ever since,” he cut in.
“You were there, Nick,” I said angrily. “You heard the whole interview!”
“I was there,” he acknowledged, gripping the armrests of the leather chair. “And I did hear it. But I strongly suspect I didn’t hear all of it, Miriam. Now why is that, do you think?”
I flinched before I could stop myself.
Then I bit my lip.
“Meaning what?” I said, my voice neutral.
“Meaning that!” he snapped, motioning at my mouth. “Meaning what you just did, right there! Meaning those weird silences between you two in the box... and the time you nearly fell out of your damned chair, just looking at him. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I noticed. Even before I talked to Black, Glen asked me why you two seemed to know each other...”
When I avoided his eyes, anger leaked out more aggressively in his voice.
“Are you going to tell me the truth?” he said. “Did you meet him over there? In some fucking sand cave outside Kabul?”
I shook my head, staring at him incredulously. “No.”
“Do you know him at all? From before we picked him up?”
“No!” I said, angrier.
He continued to level that stare at me. I could feel the skepticism on him. More than skepticism. He flat out thought I was lying to him.
As if he heard me, Nick let out a forced sigh, clenching his jaw briefly. “I don’t know what it is about the two of you, but everything in my cop instincts tells me to keep you as far away from that piece of shit ghost as possible. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
Exhaling in annoyance, I started to speak but Nick cut me off.
“I mean it, Miri,” he said, holding up a hand. He leaned forward, glaring at me. “You go near that guy, I’ll arrest you. You hear me? I don’t give a damn what Ian says. I’ll throw you in jail until we have enough to haul Black back in... and then I’ll slap you with interfering with an open murder investigation. Make you go in front of a judge... even if they throw it out.”
I stared at him, unable to hide my incredulity.
“Jesus, Nick. What in the hell––”
“I know you better than you think, Miri,” Nick said, his voice colder still.
There was a silence where we just looked at one another.
As we did, it hit me that I’d never been on the receiving end of that particular look in Nick’s eyes before. I’d seen it, sure, but I’d never had it aimed at me.
He didn’t just think I was holding out on him.
He knew I was holding out on him. He knew there was something about Quentin Black I wasn’t telling him.
And he didn’t like it.
He didn’t like it one bit.