Page 21 of The Psychic

Twenty minutes later she was standing in line at Lucille’s.

Glancing through the window she could almost see the Laurelton Police Department; it was that close.

She had no history with the Laurelton department as her contact with Detective Verbena was with the River Glen P.D.

, which kind of made her want to stop in and tell them her tale …

but she would just wind up in the same back-and-forth she’d had with Sloan at River Glen.

Taking her to-go cup of coffee back to her car, she sipped carefully of the scalding brew. It felt wrong to just head into work and do nothing about the dying or dead woman, so she sat for several minutes, going over what she’d seen in her mind, attempting to suss out more information.

Nothing.

Just the same image of the woman in the clearing, the mud, the rain …

“Damn it.” Ronnie could feel the familiar worry creep in— that she’d made a mistake, missed the signs.

She angrily shook it off. Until she knew differently, she was going to assume someone, somehow, was reaching out to her for help.

She just needed to stay open, receptive.

But she felt the inexorable tick, tick, tick of the clock working against her.

Cooper knocked on four of the Kirshners’ neighbors’ doors before he got any kind of answer.

The neighbors were acres apart and didn’t have Ring cameras, or city water and sewer, or sidewalks or traffic or any noise beyond an occasional bugling elk or chickens clucking and scratching in their yards.

The rural aspect of their abodes appealed to Cooper’s inner self; one of the reasons he’d been so high on choosing Mary Jo as their surrogate.

But the acres of land weren’t conducive to neighbor “spying” as it were, which was what Cooper had been counting on.

He was already a little discouraged as he drove down the long, gravel entry lane of the fifth neighbor, splashing through chocolate-colored mud puddles along the way.

It didn’t help that it gave him time to go over the conversation he’d had with Jamie regarding Mary Jo’s disappearance.

Jamie had wanted to pore over every detail but Cooper had no other answers for her, which only increased her worries.

It killed him that she was at a delicate part of her own pregnancy and he couldn’t alleviate the worst of her fears.

It was his job to keep her from getting up from the bed too much and certainly to keep her from being unduly stressed.

He pulled up beside the circle of gravel surrounding a concrete birdbath, which in turn sat in the center of a shaggy oval of grass. Today there were no birds partaking of the nearly overflowing bath, whose water looked almost as muddy as the puddles studding the drive.

The house was a one-story gray shingled ranch with white pane windows flanking the front porch.

A slab of concrete with one step served as a porch.

Cooper walked up to the door and knocked firmly.

He half expected to be met with silence, but a woman opened the door.

She was still wearing her bathrobe, which she tightened at her throat upon seeing him.

She was middle-aged with grayish-blond curls and a round moon face.

Her eyes were surprised and looked him up and down without abashment.

“Hello, ma’am. My name’s Cooper Haynes and I’m a detective with the River Glen Police Department.

I’m checking to see if you noticed anything unusual around your neighbors’, the Kirshners’, home about a week, week and a half ago.

” It was a benign, standard line that had gotten him nowhere so far, and it omitted a big chunk of information about his move to administrative leave.

He showed her his identification, which she pored over for long seconds, nearly half a minute before she was satisfied.

He had already prepared himself for more head shaking, followed by questions about what he was looking for, and should they be concerned, without the offer of any true information.

So, it was a surprise when the woman said, “You mean about Mary Jo taking off?”

Cooper nodded slowly, hiding his elation. Maybe she’d seen something. “That’s right. You saw her leave?”

“I saw the preacher’s van pick her up, if that’s what you mean. She was on her walk and there he was.”

No one had mentioned Mary Jo went walking. Not any of the neighbors. Not her husband. “You know this preacher?” he asked, mentally holding his breath.

“Atticus?” she remarked with a sniff. “Sure. Who do you think introduced Mary Jo to him?”

“You?”

“Atticus do something wrong?” she suddenly asked, her hand crawling protectively up her neck again.

“Not that I know of. We’re just trying to find Mary Jo.” This was his vague reference to Stephen, as if he and Mary Jo’s husband were working together.

“Well, if she’s not at the church, I don’t know where she’d be. Do you wanna come in?” she asked after a moment. “If you give me a moment, I’ll get decent and we can talk. I got coffee.”

“Coffee would be great.”

And he waited in the kitchen while she went to “get decent.”

Sloan was in the middle of a phone conversation with Detective Verbena about the suspicious death at the Oak Terrace Apartments that occurred earlier in the week.

He was outside that apartment now, near the unmarked black sedan he’d chosen for this duty.

He’d zeroed in on the victim’s estranged husband, who’d been on scene at the time of her death, as possibly contributing to her overdose.

The man had declared he’d come to the apartment only after being contacted by other members of the family, that he hadn’t seen his ex-wife in months.

Sloan had doubted him until he’d happily taken a swab to the inside of his own mouth, then handed over the DNA sample without complaint … so … maybe not.

“It’s looking more like accidental overdose,” Sloan told Verbena after he explained about the swab.

“I still want to get the swab checked as fast as possible, just in case he’s the weasel I think he is.”

“I know someone who can help with that,” said Sloan.

“You can get this sample to the front of the queue?” She was skeptical.

“I can get it closer.” Sloan knew Inga Pedderson at the state crime lab.

They’d met during the course of an investigation when he was still in California and his case spread into Oregon.

Their business relationship had morphed into friendship over the years.

They’d never dated; he’d been with Tara most of the time, and Inga had married a few years before his divorce.

Still, they’d remained close, and Inga complained to Sloan about the assholes she dealt with everyday who pushed her to prioritize their work above anyone else’s.

But she was more than willing to help someone she liked.

“Do it,” Verbena advised. “I want that man’s DNA on file.”

“On it,” said Sloan. He asked her how her mother was doing and she said she was about the same.

“I’m back to work next week full time, unless something dramatic happens. She’s stabilized for the moment, so I’m coming back.”

“Good … there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Veronica Quick stopped by the station last night, looking for you.”

“What did she want?” A note of caution entered her voice.

“To report a missing person.” Sloan laid out what Veronica had said in an emotionless voice. He didn’t want Verbena to pick up on his own skepticism where Ms. Quick was concerned. He finished with, “I told her I would let you know she wanted to see you.”

“You don’t have to be so careful, Hart. You’re probably feeling a lot the same way I did when she came to me about Edmond Olman.” A pause. “That woman is lucky to be alive.”

“Olman’s wife.”

“If Quick hadn’t been so adamant, Mrs. Olman would have died before help came. I had patrols cruise by, but they were on again/off again. Just her word wasn’t much to go on.”

Sloan didn’t respond.

“All right. I’ll talk to her. Thanks.” Verbena hung up.

Sloan climbed into his vehicle and drove back to the station, thinking about Veronica Quick. It was best that he’d passed the information to Verbena, so he could forget about her. Maybe Veronica Quick’s guesses were close, but that didn’t make her a psychic. That just made her more aware than some.

He had an image of her in his mind from the night before. Wide, suspicious blue eyes, light brown hair, a slight chip on her shoulder about her gift.

He snorted. Gift. It was all blue smoke and mirrors as far as he was concerned.

That she was the daughter of the respected Jonas Quick was kind of mind-blowing.

Now that had to be a strained relationship.

He didn’t know the man, but from reputation alone it seemed like Quick wouldn’t want his crackpot daughter spouting off the kind of thing she’d spouted to him last night.

What had she said that day at The Pond way back when?

Something about marrying him. Words that had made Caldwell and Townsend and others snigger and tease him in a way that had driven Sloan’s ex-girlfriend Shana crazy.

He hadn’t appreciated it much either, but come on.

Veronica Quick had just been severely traumatized, a kid who’d nearly drowned.

He’d been the one to administer CPR, and her words in the moment had stemmed from gratitude.

Maybe in her preteen mind she’d mistaken it for love.

Whatever the case, his friends had taken her at her word, and then when it had come out that she believed she had some psychic inner eye, or whatever the hell it was, his friends had doubled down on the joke.

And now she wanted him to find a missing woman from inside her mind? He could just imagine how that would go over with Caldwell and Townsend, if and when they heard about that.

Yep. It was a good thing that next week the Veronica Quick problem would be Detective Verbena’s.