Fatal Fortune Page 5

  Once I was on the road, I took a look at the clock on the dashboard. It wasn’t even seven a.m. I didn’t quite know what to do or where to go first, but luckily my stomach decided for me. With a little grumble it reminded me that I hadn’t eaten in nearly twelve hours.

  I drove to a favorite spot of mine—coincidentally it was a place Candice had introduced me to—and easily found a secluded spot to sit and order coffee and a breakfast burrito. I’m a huge fan of breakfast. And burritos.

  After polishing off the delicious meal, I dug through my purse for a pen and the small notebook I kept for grocery lists and the like. I then closed my eyes and took some deep breaths, willing myself to relax. Then I flipped on my radar and let the impressions unfold.

  I don’t think most people realize that there is no garden-variety psychic. We’re as varied as any profession that has a multitude of specialties. For my private clients, my specialty is predicting the future, but for the Feds, I’m just as adept at peering into the past.

  Specifically, when I’m working a case, I think of time like a ribbon stamped or punctuated by events. Some events are mutable. They haven’t happened yet, but in the ether they are likely to take place. This could be something like, if I were to see jail bars, I know that eventually the suspect will be brought to justice. Other events, however, are immutable; i.e., they’ve already taken place and all I have to do is focus on them to get a feel for what actually happened.

  If I have a starting point, I can look into the ether and talk in detail about those events at that specific point on the ribbon, like who was there, how the event unfolded, what led up to the event, and best of all, sometimes I’ll even discover some lost clue or unnoticed fact that can help my investigative team home in on a suspect.

  My track record is pretty good—it’d have to be to work with the Feds—but there are limitations. I don’t tend to see things unfolding in my mind like a movie. If I’m able to describe a suspect, it’s often in the sketchiest of terms, like the suspect has dark hair, dark eyes, pale complexion. If I’m really lucky, sometimes I’ll even have an inkling as to how he or she relates to the victim. I don’t get names, addresses, or phone numbers, and I don’t think I’ve ever been able to definitively say that Colonel Mustard did it in the library with the candlestick, but I can often point my team in a direction that helps move the case forward. So I was fairly confident that I’d be able to get something off the events in the parking garage from the night before.

  What I found in the ether troubled me greatly. I felt strongly that Candice knew the victim prior to his murder. I also felt strongly that she’d meant to meet up with him in that parking garage. I could sense that she’d had some sort of appointment with him, that they’d agreed to meet. Why she’d murdered him eluded me, but there were traces of other troubling things in the ether too.

  Hoping that perhaps the good doctor wasn’t so good after all, I homed in on his energy—maybe Candice had had a very good reason for shooting him—but what I came back with was that he’d been a fairly decent man.

  I kept getting this feeling like Robinowitz had been the victim of a betrayal. Like he’d been trying to make amends or do something good to atone for something else, and he’d come to Austin to fulfill that promise, but it’d all blown up in his face. Literally.

  And the betrayal ran deep. I made a notation on my pad that there were other players involved and I could sense a strong connection back to Vegas. The more I looked, the bigger the picture seemed to get and the more confusing. There was another woman at the center of all this; everything seemed to swirl around her. It wasn’t Candice that I was picking up on; it was another female, unknown to me. All I could tell about her was that she wasn’t to be trusted and that she had dark hair and light eyes. She felt attractive to my senses, and I was convinced that this woman turned heads when she was in public.

  She was linked to Candice, but the oddest thing was that I couldn’t say for sure that Candice knew her.

  Every time I tried to focus on what happened to Dr. Robinowitz, this woman’s energy popped up as the root cause.

  After nearly half an hour of jotting down my impressions and going back over the clues in the ether, I finally laid down my pen and rubbed my temple. I had a headache from trying to make sense of all the discordant parts.

  “Cassidy,” I muttered, using Candice’s nickname. “What the hell have you gotten yourself mixed up in?” (Swearing doesn’t count when your BFF is accused of murder and you have no idea how to help her.)

  Pushing past the throbbing in my temple, I tried to find Candice in the ether. My BFF hums a little low, and by that, I mean that her energy—or her essence, if you will—isn’t very “loud.”

  A small minority of people vibrate on high, and finding them in the ether is like suddenly hitting on a nearby radio station. The transmission is loud and crystal clear; there’s no static or guesswork. The majority of people, however, have a medium sort of vibration—you can find them, but it may take searching the airwaves for the perfect dial setting. Since Candice is in the low-vibration category, she’s hard to find. You have to hunt. And she’s usually on the AM dial amid a sea of static.

  I’ve shared this observation with her before. On her birthday every year I’ve given her a personal reading and to prep her I always say, “Okay, now remember, when we sit together, you’ve got to open yourself up.” What I mean by that is that Candice has to come to the session with a willingness to be read. She has to allow me in past those walls she’s had up since the car accident that took her sister. That’s hard for her, I know, but if she doesn’t come to the reading with the right frame of mind, I have to work extra hard to pull even the smallest details out of the ether.

  And my BFF is a wily one. I know for a fact that she sometimes puts my limitations with her energy to the test. In other words, if Candice doesn’t want me to find her, she usually gets her wish.

  So I wasn’t surprised when I barely registered her pulse on my radar. “Damn you,” I muttered as I focused all my intuitive ability right at her, trying to pick up any clue I could. But it was pretty pointless. All I could tell was that Candice was for the moment safe, but where she was I hadn’t a clue.

  I then tried to read her emotions and what I found was that she seemed alarmed and upset. But not the weepy kind of upset—more the “I’mma kill you” kind of upset. With her track record of the past twenty-four hours, I found that super worrisome. She seemed intent on getting even, but for what or with whom I couldn’t even scratch the surface. I mean, hadn’t she already brought the hammer down on Robinowitz? What havoc was she going to wreak next?

  Taking a break from focusing on her energy, I sat back and considered that the answer might be hidden in that file she’d had me take out of her safe, and now that I’d already been interviewed by APD, I figured maybe I could take a peek at the contents of the file without committing perjury. But there was no way I could go back to the Witts’ to retrieve it in broad daylight. I’d go later that evening when it was dark again. I didn’t quite know how I was going to fill the whole day, but I did know that I needed to get a new phone, so after leaving enough to cover the bill and a generous tip on the table, I headed out.

  I dozed off in the car waiting for the cell phone store to open and when I woke up, there was a note under my windshield. I blinked to clear the bleariness and got out to inspect the note.

  Reaching out the window, I lifted the folded piece of paper out from under the wiper and, when I opened it, saw that it revealed a sequence of numbers. That’s all, just a set of ten numbers. I turned the paper over, but nothing else was written there.

  Looking up, I glanced around the parking lot to see who might’ve left it, but there was no one around and mine was the only car in the lot. I looked back at the note and muttered, “What the hell is this?” (Okay, so that probably cost me a quarter.)

  Puzzled, I glanced at t
he clock on the dash. It was just before nine. I got out, locked up, and approached the double doors of the store, hoping they were open, and saw an employee walking toward me holding up a set of keys. She undid the lock and as I entered, I said, “Did you happen to see anybody around my car a few minutes ago?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Around your car?” I pointed to the only one in the lot. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I just got here about ten minutes ago myself. My car is out back. Why? Did someone hit you?”

  “No,” I said. “Just someone left a note on my windshield, but I’m not sure who.”

  “What’d it say?” she asked, then covered her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy.”

  “No, don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s cool. Here, look at this. It’s just a set of numbers, but I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”

  The girl leaned forward. Her name tag read TANISHA. “That could be a phone number.”

  I squinted at the digits. They began with 702. “If it is a phone number, it’s not local.”

  Tanisha shrugged. “If it is a number, it starts with the area code for Las Vegas.”

  My head snapped up. “It does?”

  Tanisha nodded. “My mom and my grandma both live there. That’s their area code.”

  I felt tingly with excitement. “Tanisha, I’ll need to purchase a new phone today. As quick as possible. I’m not due for an upgrade, but I brought my husband’s credit card, so what do you have in the latest iPhone? I’m a bit partial to the gold one.”

  Once I had my shiny new gold phone in hand, I raced out of the store and back to my car. I could hardly wait to plug it in and call the number. I just knew it was Candice.

  When I got to my car, however, there was another folded piece of paper on my windshield. I grabbed it greedily and opened it. There was a printed word there. It read,

  Text only.

  Hustling into my car, I plugged in my phone and typed out the following message:

  Cassidy, where are you?!!!!

  I watched the display for a good five minutes, which felt like fifty. Finally a new message came in.

  Did you get the file?

  I sighed. I was almost afraid to reply because once I did, she’d have no reason to text me until she wanted that file back. Which gave me an idea.

  I have it. Did you want me to bring it to you?

  Again I waited over a minute for her reply.

  No. Tell no one about it, or that we communicated. Delete these messages and get rid of the notes.

  I typed back, desperate to have her trust me enough to help her:

  Candice! Where ARE you?!!!

  But after waiting fifteen minutes, I knew there’d be no additional response. “Dammit,” I muttered. (That one probably counted too.)

  Candice was being particularly cagey, and I couldn’t say that I blamed her, but I was her best friend and if she was going to trust someone to help her, then it had to be me or Brice. I didn’t know whether she’d contact him or not, but I doubted it.

  It was risky enough contacting me, but he was a whole other kettle of fish. Brice had ways and means of finding someone once he put his mind to it. If Candice wanted to remain on the lam, then the last person she could contact was Brice.

  Thinking about that made me feel bad for him, because I knew he was crazy worried. And then I thought of a way I might be able to tell him she was okay without letting him know that I’d spoken to her.

  I’d have to be careful, though. Brice wasn’t to be underestimated, and neither was my husband. I had no doubt that the two of them would double-team me just to try to figure out where Candice was. Still, I owed it to Brice to try.

  Putting the car into gear, I sped out of the parking lot, hoping my plan didn’t turn into a trap.

  Chapter Three

  • • •

  I found Brice and Dutch huddled over Brice’s desk in his office. Their jaws dropped a little when I walked in. “Morning, fellas,” I said casually, sashaying my way over to the small conference table.

  “Where ya been, Edgar?” Dutch asked just as casually, as if he’d only just noticed I wasn’t around. I wasn’t buying it for a second.

  “Here and there,” I said, taking a seat.

  “We’ve been calling you,” Brice told me.

  I tried to look confused. “Really? That’s weird.”

  “Your phone is going straight to voice mail,” Dutch said. “Is it off?”

  “I think I left it at home.” (In the shower.)

  “Huh,” the boys said together.

  “Why not check your purse?” Dutch suggested, nodding his chin in the direction of my handbag like he just knew I was a big fat fibber. “I noticed a new charge to the Verizon store on my credit card this morning.”

  I smiled tightly. “Okay, okay, you caught me.” I dug into my pocketbook and retrieved the brand-new phone. “Isn’t it pretty?” Dutch frowned. “I’ll pay you back,” I promised. Dutch added a skeptical eyebrow to the frown. I could hardly blame him. I owed the swear jar close to a grand, so he probably had good reason to doubt my creditworthiness.

  “We noticed this morning that you went out the back way,” Dutch said next, referring to my hasty exit out the back window.

  I squirmed, but just a little. “Sorry about that. I had to check something out.”

  “What?” they both said together.

  “It’s not important. What is important is that I had a little ping on the old radar about Candice.”

  “A little ping?” Dutch repeated, his eyes narrowing. He had great lie detector skills and he wasn’t even psychic.

  I stuck to my story. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to get a bead on Candice all morning.”

  “And?” Brice said anxiously.

  “And I feel she’s safe.” For emphasis, I added a big grin and a nod. “Isn’t that great? She’s okay.”

  Dutch came to sit down next to me. “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know,” I told him, which was the truth. “The only feeling I had was that she was tucked away somewhere safe.”

  “Has she tried to call you again?” Brice asked, just like I’d hoped he would.

  I shrugged and placed my new phone in the center of the table I was sitting next to. Putting it on speaker, I dialed my voice mail and heard that I had six new messages. I clicked through all the ones from Dutch (three) and all the ones from Brice (also three), and then turned up my hands before hanging up the call. “I guess she hasn’t called me again.”

  “What aren’t you telling us?” Dutch asked.

  Uh-oh. “Nothing, sweetie,” I said, my voice cracking.

  Brice came over to sit down too. And then he did the most unexpected thing. He reached out and put a hand on my arm and as I looked at him, I saw that his eyes were a bit misty. “Abby,” he said softly. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, and it’s killing me. Please. Tell me what you know.”

  My gaze fell to the tabletop. I didn’t want to look at Brice when I lied. “I don’t know anything more than you do,” I whispered. And then I lifted my chin and added, “But I do know that Candice wouldn’t shoot anybody unless she had a very good reason. Whatever this is about, we only know a small part of the story. There’s more than meets the eye, Brice. I’m sure of it.”

  Brice sighed and let go of my arm to sit back in his chair and rub his face. He looked exhausted. “She needs our help, Abby. I’m not psychic like you, but I can feel that she needs our help.”

  I had a good sense of that too, but there was no way I was letting Brice know I felt that way.

  “I need to find out what she might’ve had on that laptop,” Brice said, standing up to pace the floor. “Rivers, what’s the name of that detective you’ve been mentoring at APD? We need to call him and see if he can get us a copy of the file the
y’re building.”

  “Brice,” Dutch said. My eyes widened a little because at the office Dutch never refers to Brice as anything other than “sir.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can’t. If the director finds out you’re digging around for intel in the APD investigation of your wife . . .” Dutch didn’t finish the sentence.

  But Brice didn’t seem to want to listen. “What am I supposed to do? Sit back and do nothing? She’s my wife, Dutch. My wife!”

  I had an impromptu impulse and stood up to go over to Brice. I stood in front of him and his expression was just so lost, so desperate, so crushingly agonized, that I stepped forward a little more and hugged him. He stiffened and I hugged tighter. And then he let out a tremendous sigh and hugged me back. While I held on to him, I intuitively assessed his energy. He felt on the verge of panic, as if he was about to do something crazy and drastic. I saw two paths extending out into the future. One had him throwing his career away and a legal element tainting his energy—as if that drastic thing he’d be doing would get him into trouble with the law. The other path felt safer, more discreet, but barely restrained. Next to him on this path was a female with light brown hair. I focused on this second path, because I knew the female with the light brown hair was me, and when I finally let go and stood back, I knew what I needed to do.

  “Dutch is right,” I began. “You can’t get involved. But I can. I just can’t do it officially.”

  “What’re you talking about, Cooper?” Brice asked. He didn’t seem impatient, just exhausted and so worried about Candice that he couldn’t think straight.

  “I can investigate this as a private citizen.” Moving over to my purse, I fished around for my official FBI consultant’s badge and set it on the table. “I just can’t have any ties to the bureau while I do it. So as of right now, sir, I’d like to resign as your civilian profiler.”