Page 43 of The Psychic

Ronnie knocked on Angel’s door. She’d never sought out his company before, but now that she had an inkling about who he was, she wanted to see if she was right.

He didn’t respond, so after a few minutes she let herself into her own place.

He’d always been around these past few months, but of course now that she wanted him he wasn’t home.

She’d waited at Bean There, Done That until Cooper Haynes had arrived.

She hadn’t told the detective what she’d envisioned about the younger pregnant woman.

Wasn’t sure it was completely accurate. But she did mention that she thought the preacher was treating his flock more like a harem, to which the detective had skewered her with a look and asked point-blank if that was a prediction on her part.

“Just a guess,” she’d told him, thinking the half lie would be easier to swallow than the truth.

Harley had been all about keeping Mary Jo from getting back on the bus.

Stepdaughter and stepfather had eyed each other, silently promising to deal with the hows, whys and wherefores of Harley’s meeting with Ronnie at some future point.

Ronnie had left them to their “discussion” with the preacher, who had gotten all huffy and perturbed and threatened to call the police, to which Harley had boldly claimed, “Go ahead, you perv,” which caused Detective Haynes to place a restraining hand on her shoulder.

The “perv” hadn’t followed through, maybe having a little insight to how that was going to look.

Instead he and Detective Haynes had shared a tête-à-tête outside, while the herd of women, and several emaciated men who also seemed to idolize the preacher, milled around the shop while curious gazes from the few other customers observed the drama.

In the end Mary Jo, i.e., “Rebekkah,” had rather reluctantly left with the detective and Harley.

A stopgap to what Ronnie knew would be a later raid of some kind on the church because of the age of some of the younger women who’d apparently been the ones instrumental in getting the preacher to extend their privileges to the coffee shop.

Now, Ronnie was just finishing snacking on a small cup of mixed nuts she’d heated in the microwave when her phone buzzed. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was Brandy. “I was just thinking about calling you,” she answered warmly.

“What did you tell Sloan?” Brandy cut in harshly.

Ronnie’s breath caught at her sharp tone. “What? About what?”

“He went to Clint’s and took pictures of his tires and some debris out of the truck bed. He thinks Clint killed Melissa! Why? What’s he doing? Did you put him up to it? Did you think you SAW SOMETHING?”

Ronnie’s heart started thumping against her ribs. “No … we were … discussing the site, the clearing …” A lie, sort of. But the truth, in essence. “There were a lot of tire tracks, different ones. You saw them.”

“What about the debris? What was he looking for?”

She swallowed. “Something maybe to rule out Clint?”

Brandy’s breath came out in an angry rush. “Clint couldn’t hurt Mel. You know he couldn’t! What the hell, Ronnie? Is this just because you want to be with Sloan?”

“What?”

“You threw Clint into the fire! Pointed Sloan right at him, and he’s innocent! Thanks a fucking lot.” She clicked off in a fury.

Ronnie sank against the kitchen counter, her pulse still racing from the exchange. Sloan must’ve listened to her about the maple tree whirlies. That must be what the debris was that he’d gathered from the bed of Clint’s truck.

But that kind of evidence would never hold up in a court of law. You needed a chain of custody, tech people who could vouch for where the evidence came from. A grab by a single officer didn’t mean anything … except as a means to scare a guilty mind … Is that what he was doing?

She dialed Sloan before she could change her mind. He answered on the third ring. “I’m in a meeting. I’ll have to call you back.”

“I just got a call from Brandy. She’s totally pissed at me. Thinks I sold her brother down the river because of some evidence you picked up?”

“Clint knew what I was doing.”

“Have you even looked at Hugh McNulty? Checked his alibi? Or any of Mel’s other relationships? Or did you just go after Clint?”

“I’ll call you back.” His tone was cool.

“Don’t bother.”

He was busy. She got that. But his actions had lost her Brandy’s friendship again, and she wanted to blame somebody, him , for it.

She glanced at the time on her cell phone. Three hours till she was supposed to meet Marian Langdorf. Damn, she didn’t want to go. She wanted … to scream!

She stalked back outside and pounded angrily on Angel’s door. She wanted answers. Now! She listened at the panels but there was no sound from within. Maybe he was on a job. Or whatever.

A rush of brutal December wind chased along the covered porch and cut through her before she re-entered her own apartment, all the while thinking hard.

Shivering inwardly, she closed the door behind her.

She decided to call Jesse Taft, and after shedding her coat, punched out his cell number on her phone.

The P.I. picked up right away, but before he could say anything, she demanded, “Did you ask Angel Vasquero to watch over me?”

He hesitated in responding for a moment; telling, in itself. “He was trying to help his cousin and there was an apartment next to yours. He’s a good man.” A pause. “What gave him away?”

“Oh, I’m a psychic, remember?” she retorted. “I know these things.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “Why do I get the feeling you’re in trouble?”

“Maybe you’re the psychic. Maybe you really do see your sister.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“Caught onto that, did ya?” She let out a long breath, then said, “I’m mad at the whole world, Taft. You’re just part of it.” She silently counted to ten. Still her hot temper didn’t cool, despite her best efforts. “Thanks for looking out for me, but I can handle myself.”

“That’s what I said when you warned me,” he reminded with a hint of amusement.

“Goodbye, Taft. I’ll tell Angel he’s off the job when I see him.”

She clicked off and threw the damned phone onto the couch.

A moment later she picked it up again and noted she’d received a voice mail she must’ve missed while she was at the coffee shop with Harley and Detective Haynes.

Touching the symbol for voice mails, she realized the phone number was familiar but couldn’t place it.

Clicking on, she felt gooseflesh sweep up her arms as she heard Shana’s voice say, “Mom said you and Sloan were looking for me. I got spooked and checked into a motel to recover. Things feel weird. Why were you worried about me, and what were you doing with Sloan?”

Shana’s last words were an accusation. Oh …

God … Ronnie stumbled into the living room and sank into her favorite chair.

Really? Shana was okay? But … She listened to the message again, then once again, checking the time and finally accepting that the voice had to be Shana’s by the hour that the call had come in. She was alive!

Ronnie shook her head. Good … good … that was good. Of course it was good …

But you were so wrong!

She covered her face with her hands, took several deep breaths. Dear God, her visions were making her crazy! Or … maybe she always had been.

No! No! She closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down, pulling the fuzzy throw over her body again as she was still chilled to the marrow.

Images of Shana and the questions about what had happened to her swirled through her brain. Did Sloan know? Was that part of his cold remoteness? No. If he’d known, he would have ripped into her.

Five minutes later she threw off the blanket and pushed herself to her feet, a new determination driving her. Sweeping up her purse, she headed for her Escape and Aunt Kat.

“… don’t want you wandering off the reservation, bro.

That’s all I’m saying. Not criticizing your investigative technique, just your slant.

” Townsend smiled thinly at Sloan. Beneath the bonhomie there was steel.

Sloan had always known it was there, but he was getting a real good sense of it now. “You gotta lay off Mercer.”

“You checked with Hugh McNulty. What did he say?” Sloan asked.

He was seated in a visitor’s chair in Townsend’s office, and had been the recipient of the sheriff’s ire for the past forty minutes already.

The conversation had been all wrapped in “we’re just two old friends workin’ through a problem” and he was sick of it.

“Says he was out in the Coast Range. Nowhere near the site of his wife’s demise. So far that’s panned out, but you know how these things can turn.” He leaned back in his desk chair, the spring shrieking as if in pain. Townsend was apparently so used to the sound he didn’t react.

Sloan’s ladder-back chair kept him sitting like a schoolboy, purposeful on Townsend’s part, another subtle reminder of who was boss. Getting a taste of his old friend’s methodology amongst his troops made Sloan determined to make the move to River Glen P.D. permanent.

“Leave Mercer to me. Capisce? ” Townsend’s eyes were hard.

“ Capisce .”

Sloan left the sheriff’s office for the scattered desks the deputies and office personnel used, but kept right on heading for the door.

He didn’t expect autonomy from Townsend on the investigation into Melissa McNulty’s death, but he did expect cooperation.

Instead, he’d been dressed down. Mercer had complained to Townsend and that’s all it took.

But the tech team had the pictures of Clint’s tires, and Inga Pedderson was already examining the seeds from the maple tree.

If those seeds’ DNA matched that of the maple seeds picked up at the site where Melissa McNulty’s body was found, then Mercer, or at least Mercer’s truck, had been at the homicide site and Sloan was going to get answers, Sheriff Abel Townsend or not. He just hoped Mercer had some.