Page 42 of The Psychic

Oh, man, she was going to be in trouble.

Sloan sat at his desk. The department was mostly empty on this cold and dreary December Saturday.

He picked up the receiver on the desk phone, then replaced it.

Drummed his fingers on the desktop. Thought about Veronica Quick.

Picked up the receiver again and this time punched in Clint Mercer’s phone number.

Once again it rang on and on. Mercer might have talked to him last night, but the man was devastated.

Didn’t want to answer questions and apart from admitting to an affair with Melissa McNulty, and revealing that Veronica Quick had stopped by last night with his sister, he’d given Sloan nothing to help with the case.

Maybe Townsend could get more out of him, although the two men were better friends than Sloan was with either of them, so who knew?

Sloan wanted to see Clint’s truck tires. Wanted to photograph the tread.

Do you really think Clint killed her?

No … maybe … maybe … Love and obsession made people do crazy things. Crazy, crazy things. Dangerous things. Sometimes deadly things.

His cell rang from within the pocket of the jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair.

He pulled it out and saw it was Tara. An unwelcome surprise from his ex.

The divorce had been finalized nearly a year ago.

He made a face and answered, knowing she would likely pester him until she had her say.

“Hi,” he answered.

“Hi, yourself. I see you’ve been staying at a You+Me property for … mmm … two months now? Three?”

It got under his skin that she was keeping tabs on him. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, I might come on down and see you, if you don’t mind.”

Tara was in Seattle, four hours and about two hundred miles north of River Glen. He hadn’t seen her since the divorce. Had only spoken to her a few times in the last year when she’d called him. “What’s going on?” he asked now.

“I’ve just been thinking about us … me … my … choices. I know they were bad. I was just so hurt and—”

“I’m not going over this again.”

“—I just want to say I’m sorry. I think we could have made it, if things were different. If I’d handled things differently.”

“Where’s this coming from?” He cut her off. “What do you want?”

“Jesus, Sloan. Do you have to be such an ass? I’m trying to apologize!”

She’d apologized and apologized. She’d wheedled and cried and begged.

Sloan had been relieved when the divorce was finalized because it had been a long, rocky road to get the final decree signed and the marriage dissolved.

“Tara, we’re divorced and it’s going to stay that way,” he said in a firm but calm voice. “No more apologies.”

He heard her swift intake of breath. She hadn’t expected him to be so forceful. So certain.

She exploded. “Well, fuck you, then. Fuck. YOU.” She slammed down the phone.

Perfect , he thought sarcastically.

Suddenly he was claustrophobic.

The walls and his past seemed to close in on him and he had to get away. Get out. Without a word, he snagged his coat and left the squad room. He wasn’t supposed to be at work anyway. He thought about heading to a bar and then changed his route to Clint Mercer’s house.

Ronnie slipped on her jacket on her way to Bean There, Done That, a local coffee chain which had started in the neighboring town of Laurelton. The one on Lincoln was actually closest to her, but then maybe Detective Haynes knew that when he’d chosen it.

As Ronnie left her apartment, she glanced toward Angel’s door. She hadn’t seen him since he’d kept her from falling this morning and she was kind of glad not to run into him. She was embarrassed and didn’t want a lot of explanations.

A lot of that going around , she thought.

Her brain snagged on Angel. Something about him.

“What?” she asked aloud. All these feelings. All these messages … What she needed was answers. Explanations. Something substantial that she could grab on to. Something—

He’s a private investigator.

Oh.

As soon as the thought entered her brain she knew it was true.

Was he … following her? Watching out for her?

Someone had hired him. Maybe the stuff with his cousin Daria was all a lie, or maybe not.

But he’d planted himself next to her for a reason.

Maybe it was about Daria. Maybe she was just egotistically assuming it was about her. Maybe—

Jesse Taft put him up to it. Returning the favor.

Ah. She knew it as if someone had told her.

Not long ago, Ronnie had “seen” Taft’s sister, Helene, his muse.

Helene had a dire warning for her brother.

Ronnie had passed it along, insisting that Taft be careful.

Taft hadn’t really believed Ronnie, but his heightened awareness had saved him.

So now it seemed Taft had hired Angel to watch over her, or maybe Angel had somehow let him know about his cousin’s issues with her firm and they’d worked out some kind of deal between them.

But Taft was involved. She was sure of it.

Keeping an eye out for her in the form of Angel Vasquero.

Did Detective Haynes know? she wondered as she pushed through the door to Bean There, Done That.

The aroma of coffee and some kind of spice …

Christmas spice … greeted her along with soft music, some jazzy version of “The Little Drummer Boy” emanating from overhead speakers while a blond girl in braids and an elf hat manned the register.

Ronnie glanced around the smattering of tables but there was no sign of Haynes and only a few people hanging out. She checked the time on her phone: 2:35. So he wasn’t that late, yet. But she had things to do and if he didn’t show up soon, she would call him and leave.

A slim young woman with dark hair rose from a table where she’d been sitting, tensely facing the door. Ronnie registered her a moment before she stopped in front of her.

“Are you waiting for Cooper Haynes?” she asked.

Ronnie had a sudden flash of insight. “You texted me.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I had to find out what happened with Mary Jo, and Cooper isn’t talking. He’s afraid my mom will freak out and I am, too. But I have to know. I’ve got to find her.”

“The … surrogate?” she guessed.

“You do know about her,” she said intensely.

“No. I don’t really. I just …”

“What? You just, what?”

“I came up with a wrong name. I didn’t know her name was Mary Jo.”

“What did you come up with?”

“It’s irrelevant. It’s—”

“What name?”

“Rebekkah. Two k ’s, one h . That’s what I told Detective Haynes.”

That stopped her. She clearly didn’t know what to do with that.

“Are you his daughter?” asked Ronnie.

“Uh, stepdaughter. But more like a daughter. I’m sorry. I’m Harley Woodward. Cooper’s married to my mom. I thought you knew where Mary Jo was.”

“I’m afraid not. I wish I did, for you. I think you should ask your stepfather.”

“Yeah, that’s worked so well so far. He wanted to meet with you, though. He was calling and texting you.” She regarded Ronnie with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know who you are.”

“My name’s Veronica Quick. I’m with Tormelle & Quick Law Firm.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s right. He was going there. Did you do the legal work for him?”

“No. I’m not a lawyer.”

“Oh, shit. Oh. Sorry. Um.” Her eyes narrowed a bit. ‘You’re the psychic? I overheard him talking to someone about you.”

“Jesse Taft?” Ronnie suggested.

“Maybe. You really are a psychic?” Harley asked. “You see things?”

“Part-time,” she said in a voice laced with irony.

But Harley wasn’t allowing her to get away with anything. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not always right.”

“Like maybe you just guess at things?”

This was going nowhere. Time to end the conversation about her abilities. “I hope I helped some,” she said to Harley. “Talk to your dad. He knows more than I do.”

Intent on making her escape, Ronnie glanced toward the door and the wide window facing the street. A colorful van was parked directly in front of the shop. Children’s handprints and a beaming sun decorated its exterior.

Her heart stopped for second. What were the chances? “Heart of Sunshine Church,” she read aloud as the panel door slid open.

“What?” Harley followed her gaze outside just as a group of women and children who’d emerged from it were entering the coffee shop, the door opening, allowing in cool air and soft voices.

“Oh … fu … oh, shit … oh, holy hell … there she is,” whispered Harley, her eyes rounding as several children rushed forward to the pastry counter where they pressed their palms and noses to the glass. “Mary Jo. Oh, my God.”

Bustling in with two other women, a very pregnant woman entered. She was dark-haired, her face troubled. She must have felt the stares of both Harley and Ronnie because her gaze collided with theirs as if drawn by a tractor beam.

Mary Jo’s face registered surprise. She gasped and faltered a step, looked panicked enough to consider fleeing as she looked at Harley, who was gazing right back in stunned surprise.

Harley muttered a quick, “Thanks,” to Ronnie, then started to stride straight for the stunned woman.

“Don’t,” Ronnie warned, but too late, Harley was on a mission.

But she was intercepted by a man with graying hair bound into a wild ponytail … the preacher of Heart of Sunshine, maybe?

He stepped directly in front of Mary Jo.

Ronnie immediately didn’t trust him. Like the image of Galen with the boss’s wife, she saw the preacher in a chapel of sorts.

He came up behind a blond woman and with a few whispered words and large hands he bent her over a pew and lifted her long skirt.

There was a lot of desperate praying on her part, moaning on his, as they bucked against the wooden benches.

Ronnie recognized the blond was among the parishioners. She was holding tight to the hand of a boy who was about three, and she was pregnant again. Feeling Ronnie’s eyes on her, the blond looked over in fear, or was it a silent plea for help?

As the throng from the church collected at the counter, Ronnie drew her cell phone out of her purse and scrolled to Cooper Haynes’s texts to find his number.

It appeared on her screen just as Harley yelled, “Mary Jo!” and tried get past the preacher to the woman cowering behind him.

“What’re you doing? My parents have been looking for you! ”

Several people at surrounding tables turned to look their way.

“I’m sorry,” the preacher said calmly. “There is no Mary Jo here.” To the frightened woman, he suggested, “Maybe you should go back to the van, Rebekkah.”

“Rebekkah?” Harley spat, then met Ronnie’s gaze—the name she’d just learned—then attempted to look around the large man and catch Mary Jo’s gaze. “Is that what you go by now? Well, that’s pure bull … I know you! You’re Mary Jo Kirshner and you’re pregnant with my—”

“Hush!” the preacher ordered harshly as he waved Mary Jo outside. All the while he pinned Harley with a furious glare. “I’ll not have you harassing my parishioners.”

“Harassing?” Harley repeated. “Are you kidding?”

“Uh-oh,” someone at a nearby table whispered.

Phone in hand, Ronnie stepped closer to Harley and sent her a warning glare, hoping to defuse the escalating situation, then Ronnie addressed the gray-haired man, directly. “She’s right. We really do need to talk to—”

“Is there a problem here?” A heavy-set woman in a long white apron and hair net bustled from the kitchen and moved quickly through the tables where the few customers were ignoring their coffee to watch the drama unfold. A name tag identified her as Tess .

“No problem,” the preacher said calmly, slipping on a beatific, and oh-so-patient smile that Ronnie found completely fake.

“This girl, here, is just confused. Well, they both are,” he said, indicating Ronnie as well as Harley.

He let out a bit of a laugh as if he found the situation utterly inane. “Mistaking one of—”

“I’m not confused!” Harley glared at him and ignored the woman in the apron.

Harley’s color was high, her fists balled and she looked like she might just punch the preacher.

“It’s not a mistake! I just want to talk to her, that’s all.

Everyone’s been worried sick!” Moving swiftly, she attempted to circumvent the big man again, but he effectively blocked the door as Mary Jo escaped outside and into the van.

“Rebekkah doesn’t want to speak with you.” His smile was tight, but he didn’t budge, not even as Ronnie tried to slip past him.

“What’s going on here?” Tess demanded.

“Nothing, I assure you,” the preacher said, “A case of mistaken identity, that’s all.” His voice had taken on the pseudo calm tone Ronnie associated with some preachers and therapists. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience this … confusion has caused.”

Ronnie told him, “No confusion. Is there a reason we can’t speak with—”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he snapped, losing his well-practiced cool for a second. “Rebekkah doesn’t want to speak to either of you.” With a tight smile, he turned his attention to the aproned woman and added, “We just came here for some refreshments. Coffee or tea and some sweets for the children.”

Tess glanced back to the counter where the cashier was already ringing up orders, the line of women and children snaking past the display case.

Ronnie hit the button on her phone and placed the call to Cooper while catching a glimpse through the window, where Mary Jo pulled the sliding door of the van shut.

“I need to talk to her,” Harley insisted.

“And I don’t want any trouble,” Tess warned while still eyeing the flock of women and children near the counter, all of whom were ordering drinks and donuts and scones, the girl in the elf hat collecting cash while another lanky teen had appeared from the back and was busying himself at the hissing espresso machine where he was making a growing list of coffee drinks.

“No trouble whatsoever,” the preacher assured her in that supercilious tone that made Ronnie’s skin crawl, just as she heard someone pick up on the other end of her connection.

Haynes!

Under her breath, Ronnie said, “Detective Haynes? Ronnie Quick. I’m at Bean There, Done That on Lincoln with Harley, and you’d better get here fast. I believe your missing surrogate just walked in with members from the Heart of Sunshine Church …”