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  FATED FOR FELONY

  Victoria Laurie

  Copyright © Victoria Laurie 2019:

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  The scanning, uploading & distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal & punishable by law.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Trouble arrived on a Wednesday.

  And I suppose that’s kind of poetic, because if you’re going to get royally screwed, it might as well be on hump day.

  The day didn’t start off bad, however. It started out rather exquisitely, actually, with a steamy shower and the slick feel of my husband’s wet, toned, deliciously soap-scented skin against my torso … and, shall we say, other body parts.

  In our household, we take Wednesdays seriously.

  Morning calisthenics were then followed by a proper breakfast. I cooked. And I want it noted that I cooked because I rarely cook. In fact, breakfast is the only meal I’m allowed to cook. And that’s by order of the fire marshal.

  You would think that someone with my intuitive prowess would know ahead of time when she’s about to set fire to the kitchen, but the six times I’ve personally apologized to first responders, my husband, and our homeowners insurance company, would prove you wrong.

  Still, breakfast of eggs, coffee, and some microwave sausage is a menu I can handle.

  Surprisingly, trouble, did not arrive in the form of a smokescreen filling our kitchen. And trouble didn’t arrive as I weeded through my morning and afternoon list of clients. No, trouble—wearing one of its thousands of disguises—arrived to take an enormous shit in my lap riiiiight around five p.m., when I stopped by the Austin FBI offices to see my hubby. He’s a special agent, one notch below special agent in charge, which is a title belonging to my best friend’s husband, and Dutch’s boss, Brice Harrison.

  After breezing through the doorway, intent on talking my hubby into an early dinner out on a lovely winter evening in downtown Austin (which is a place that even in February you can still eat outside under a heat lamp and take in some Spanish tapas and a great glass of cab), I spotted Dutch hanging out in Brice’s office, holding onto a football as the pair shot the shit.

  “Afternoon, fellas,” I said, waving to agents Thune, Ricco, and Williams.

  Thune, Ricco, and Williams are new additions to our bureau office—faces fresh outta Quantico. They’re very by-the-book and protocol-oriented.

  I find them fun to play with.

  And, judging by the way they all stiffened their posture, muttered a greeting, and avoided eye contact with me, it appeared, I was getting to them.

  Walking past without further comment, I almost kept going, but, like a cat that can’t quite give up the urge to have a little fun with a cornered mouse, I purposely walked three more steps before stopping abruptly and looking sharply over my shoulder.

  To my delight, I found all three staring at me in surprise before they quickly each looked down at their keyboards again.

  Hmmm, I thought. I haven’t picked on Ricco, lately . . . .

  “Agent Ricco,” I said softly.

  Ricco’s posture stiffened again, but he kept his gaze on his computer screen and pretended to type like he was taking a speed test.

  I waited him out, especially since Thune and Williams both stopped their own clicking of the keyboard to look from Ricco to me and back again.

  Walking over to his desk, I planted myself next to him.

  He cleared his throat. “M-may I help you, Mrs. Rivers?”

  I chuckled lightly. “Oh, please. We’re all friends here. Call me Ms. Cooper.”

  Ricco gulped. “Yes, ma’am. Ms. Cooper, ma’am.”

  I waited for him to look up at me, which he did, bracing himself for what might come next.

  This is the part where I admit that, of late, I’d been pointing my radar directly into the three agents’ business, and rattling their cages something fierce. But lest you think that a rather cruel thing to do, I might also reveal that it was a direct response to the scoffing, somewhat loud conversation they’d had at the coffee shop next door the day after they joined our office and were told that a professional psychic—and one married to their direct supervisor—would be helping out on cases.

  Ricco had been especially dismissive. He and Thune had done theater-worthy impressions of me at a crime scene with multiple victims, pointing all around and yelling, “I see dead people! There! And there! And there!”

  They’d had each other and several nearby tables in hysterics, and I should know, because I was also there. Chuckling right along with them—I mean, it was kind of funny in a gallows humor sort of way. Plus, because this all happened before they’d actually had a chance to meet and work with me, their little bit of theater could almost be forgiven.

  Almost.

  At last Ricco looked up from his keyboard, a sort of grimace pasted onto his features. I smiled gamely at him and pulled out my trusty six-shooter—and by trusty six-shooter, I mean my finger gun. “Pow, pow, pow,” I said, taking aim and riffling off three quick ones right at him.

  His brow furrowed, and he glanced sideways at Thune and Williams. They wore identical expressions of confusion.

  “You’re shooting me?” he asked tentatively.

  “No,” I said with a light laugh, making a show of holstering my finger gun. “I’m predicting what place you’ll get.”

  Ricco’s brow furrowed a little deeper, but there was a tiiiiiiiny hint of recognition in his eyes. “What place I’ll get?”

  “Mmmhmm. You know, in your marksmanship competition. That’s soon, right?”

  Ricco cleared his throat, and looked sideways at his buddies again. I could see that they didn’t know what I was referring to, which made this next part all the more delicious. “Next month,” he said. “But how did you know? I haven’t told anybody about it.”

  I bounced my eyebrows and tapped my temple. Then I said, “You’ll do well. At least at first. I kinda think you’ll choke toward the end. Still, third place ain’t half bad. Better luck next time.”

  Ricco’s jaw dropped, which was my cue to smile even bigger, turn on my heel, and saunter away.

  I caught Agent Oscar Hernandez’s eye, and we exchanged a wink. Oscar and I are buds. I noticed that he’d taken out one of his earbuds to listen to what I’d been telling Ricco, and he was laughing as he put it back in his ear. He held his palm up for a high-five as I walked past. I slapped his open hand and felt a surge of hell, yeah!

  The other agents were also hiding smirks and soft chuckles. Riding a wave of approval, I strolled into Brice’s office, tossed my purse on his desk, and
said, “Hello, boys. Mama’s home.”

  Dutch was shaking his head at me, but there was a noticeable look of amusement on his face. I knew he hadn’t heard what I’d told Ricco, but he’d probably read all the body language through the glass wall that separated Brice’s office from the floor.

  “Why do you torture them?” Brice asked. He was the only frown in attendance.

  I sashayed over to the chair opposite Dutch and plopped down with a flourish. “Because it’s fun for me.”

  “It’s not great for morale,” he replied testily.

  I set my feet on his desk and crossed my legs. “It’s great for my morale.”

  “Abby,” he sighed. “Come on. I know they were morons at first, but it’s been three weeks. Can you cut them some slack?”

  I considered that. “Of course. Just as soon as they stop the hidden eye roll every time I offer up something from my radar.”

  “They’re rolling their eyes at you?” Dutch asked, his expression losing all semblance of good humor. Dutch doesn’t cotton to anyone disrespecting me. In truth, Thune, Williams, and Ricco were lucky they weren’t reassigned immediately following the coffee shop incident … which I may have recorded and shown to both Brice and Dutch.

  “Not overtly,” I said. “But I can feel their energy get all tense and resistant every time I comment on a case. They’re still dismissing me.”

  “It could be because they haven’t yet experienced the full scope of what you can do,” Brice said. Brice was much more willing to cut the new recruits some slack. Probably because he’d once been one of the biggest skeptics I’d ever worked with. “Come on, Coop, give ’em a chance. I mean, you gave me and all the other agents in this bureau time to come to terms with what you can do. Why not cut the three stooges out there the same slack?”

  I scowled. I don’t like being pressured. But Brice wasn’t just technically my own boss, he was also one of my dearest friends. “Fiiiiiiine. But if I catch so much as a snicker, they’re goin’ down, Harrison.”

  “That’s a deal I can live with.”

  Dutch got up and made a show of looking at his watch. “You feel like catching some grub with me out on the town, wife?”

  I smiled warmly at my beautiful husband. “How’d you know?”

  Dutch offered me his hand. “I’m psychic.”

  I took his hand and got up, and we were just about to say our farewells when Oscar burst into the room carrying his laptop and one of his earbuds. “Guys, you have to listen to this!”

  Setting his laptop on Brice’s desk, he tapped at his mouse, and instantly an angry male voice, with a hard Philly accent and a gravelly undertone, began to echo out of his computer. “… hardly recognize my own country anymore!” the speaker said. “When my own beloved bureau, the place I dedicated my life’s work to, is now recruiting sideshow carnival acts to direct investigations … is that where we are now? We’re hiring fortunetellers?”

  A jolt of alarm went through me, and judging by the expressions on Dutch’s and Brice’s faces, it was going through them too.

  “Who is this?” I asked softly as the male speaker went on raging.

  “It’s Mike Toscano,” Brice said before Oscar could answer him. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”

  Oscar nodded. “This is his weekly podcast. He’s the host of the Toscano FBI Files.”

  “I love that show,” Dutch said. Then looking to Brice, he asked, “You know Mike Toscano?”

  Brice frowned. “I do. I mentored under him right out of Quantico.”

  “Wow,” Dutch said. “The guy’s a legend.”

  “A legend who apparently hates me,” I said. The podcast was still playing, and Toscano wasn’t holding back.

  “Somehow this charlatan conned her way into the Austin FBI offices, which is run by a former protégé of mine. A guy I trained. A guy who should know better. He’s hired her as a consultant. A consultant! What kind of bullshit is that? I can only imagine what she must be consulting about. The color of the perp’s aura? Their lucky numbers? Or maybe she just heads to the crime scene, points at the bodies, and yells out, ‘I see dead people!’ ”

  All four of us stiffened again, and then, as one, we turned slowly to stare out the glass at the three stooges, who were each looking at us with concern given Oscar’s mad dash into Brice’s office. Their expressions morphed into a big fat uh-oh when we turned to glare at them.

  I pushed off Brice’s desk where I’d been leaning and walked up to the glass, fury in my eyes and murder on my mind. Using my index finger I made a slashing motion across my throat and snarled at Williams, Ricco, and Thune.

  The pen Williams had been biting down on while he typed on his keyboard dropped to his desk. He looked ready to bolt.

  “Thune! Williams! Ricco!” Brice roared. “Get your asses in here! Now!”

  I waited until the three stooges got up from their desks to straighten their ties and plaster placid looks on their faces before I turned away from the glass. Oscar was packing up his computer and scuttling out the door. I thought about staying and giving the three duncecateers a piece of my mind, but frankly, I was too disgusted. Glancing at Dutch, I said, “I’ll be at Taloola’s.”

  “Meet you there when I’m done,” he said curtly.

  I headed out the door after Oscar, who paused to shake his head as he passed Williams, Ricco, and Thune. The men looked scared shitless, which was good.

  When I passed them, I didn’t even make eye contact, settling for loudly muttering, “Assholes,” as I went by. And I didn’t stop to chat with Oscar, even though I knew he’d probably want a shot at trying to make me feel better. I just didn’t want him to see the real hurt in my eyes.

  I mean, it’s one thing to scoff at me in a coffee shop. It’s an entirely different thing to make me the laughing stock on a podcast with hundreds of thousands of listeners.

  Not to mention the damage they’d likely done to our reputation.

  That thought made me hustle out of the office a little faster. There were all sorts of political ramifications to having me work as a consultant at the bureau. Given the current political climate, I was like a Bunsen burner in a room filled with powder kegs. One little breeze could bring it all crashing down, and these three bozos had decided the best course of action was to introduce an industrial fan to the mix.

  “Son of a bitch,” I snapped as I shoved open the exit doors. “Son. Of. A. Bitch!”

  Twenty minutes later, someone slid into the booth next to me. I didn’t see who it was right away, but I could smell my best friend’s lovely perfume a mile away.

  “I hear you’re in need of a huckleberry,” she said drolly.

  My head was bowed, my hair covering much of my sightline, while I repeatedly stabbed the straw of my prickly pear margarita into the bottom of the glass.

  “Who called you?” I asked.

  “Oscar. He filled me in, but I didn’t really need the explanation. I could hear Brice’s voice yelling in the background.”

  I tossed my head to shake the hair out of my eyes and looked at Candice.

  “Whoa,” she said, seeing my expression. “This really got to you, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes and stared at the ceiling, water misting the rim of my lids. “Why?” was all I could say.

  Candice sighed and slid out of my side of the booth and over to the opposite side. She held up her index finger and made a swirling motion to the bartender who nodded. He was bringing our table two more prickly pears.

  “I think they didn’t like the fact that they got in trouble for making fun of you at the coffee shop. This was their way of getting some revenge, and they justified it by making the suggestion that no way should a psychic be on the government payroll.”

  Candice used air quotes around the word psychic. It annoyed me, not because she’d done it, but because I knew such a practice was common among the general population. To believe in psychic abilities was paramount to believing in UFOs, Bigfoot, and the Loch Ness Mo
nster.

  “Yep,” was all I said as our margaritas arrived.

  Candice looked up at the bartender, whose name was Rick. “Rick, may we have a plate of nachos please?”

  My mood lifted a fraction.

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Extra banana peppers, guac, and cheese, please,” she added.

  “Coming right up,” Rick promised, and left us alone again.

  “God, I love you,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “It’s mutual. And the three stooges will learn to love you too, Abs. Just give them time to see what you can do.”

  I sighed. “That’s the point, Candice. I couldn’t care less if I win over those morons. I’m just so sick of having to prove myself again and again. It’s gotten old.”

  “I get it,” she said gently. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “What do you mean, what do I want to do?”

  “Well, do you want to quit the bureau and just focus on your clients? I mean, pretty much every client who comes to you is a believer.”

  I scowled and took a long pull of the prickly pear before speaking again. “Quit the bureau . . . .how could I even do that?”

  “By quitting the bureau.”

  I gave her a “get real” look.

  She looked back like, “I am.”

  “But what about the cases?” I asked.

  Candice took a sip of her own drink before replying. “They’ll get solved. Or they won’t. If you quit, it won’t be your concern anymore.”

  “What about Dutch? And Brice?”

  “They’ll understand.”

  “What about our business?”

  Candice is a private investigator, and I often weigh in on her cases.

  “If you want to keep consulting with me, I’m sure as hell not going to stop you, but if you don’t, Abby, if you simply need a break from it all, then …”

  “Then what?”

  “Then take. The. Break.”

  I stabbed the bottom of the glass a few more times, irritated that she was making what felt very complex so simple. “I’ll think about it,” I finally said.