Charlie could hear them downstairs, fighting again. That was good. The young man was telling the woman that he was worried, and the woman was squealing at him, her voice high and angry. It sounded like a screeching bird. Actually, to Charlie, it sounded more like bending steel.
Charlie remembered one time she’d been visiting one of her father’s construction sites, walking around the muddy lot and poking her head into pipes and stacks of metal bracers and sheets of plywood. Her father often took her to work, insisting that she wear one of those large hardhats that bounced on her head. She’d asked before for a kid-sized one, and in pink, but, so far, her dad had made her wear the big yellow ones. Sometimes, they smelled like sweat.
But she remembered one time they had been watching a group of her father’s construction workers—they were hoisting up a metal bracer, or at least that’s what her Dad had called it. The metal had spun into place, and then suddenly part of it had caught on something else and the massive bar of metal had bent almost in half, accompanied by a hideous shriek that had made Charlie cover her ears. Her father had cursed loudly—he often cursed at work, and then asked Charlie not to tell her mother—and walked off to try to figure out what had gone wrong and how the metal had gotten bent.
The woman downstairs sounded like that metal bar, bending under pressure.
Charlie wiggled and listened for more fighting. She sat up on the bed and turned, inspecting the headboard where her right hand was securely zip tied to the frame—the wood was too thick here for her to work it loose or cut it free. And the tie was on too tight, one around her wrist and then looped through another around the hole in the headboard.
On the bedside table were a stack of books and a lamp. Charlie gingerly pulled open the small drawer and started rummaging through the contents, keeping one ear on the argument below. She found some pens, a few sheets of paper, stamps, and a bunch of other random stuff. She pocketed one of the pens and wiggled down off the bed. She thought about trying to use the pen to pry off the zip tie, but she had no way to reattach it before the kidnappers returned. Instead, she strained at the zip tie, groping under the bed with her left hand, feeling around but finding nothing.
Angry, Charlie sat back down on the edge of the bed. She knew she was on the second floor and that they were in the country. If she could only figure out a way to get her hand free, she could sneak across the hallway and free Maya. If the door was locked, she could escape through the windows, either those in this room or the smaller one in the bathroom that looked out over a rooftop, and go get help.
She could probably use the pen to pry herself loose right now, but then the kidnappers would know. Charlie looked at hand, zip tied to the bed, and started to cry.
Frank arrived at the police station with a large cup of coffee from the McDonald’s up the street—he was feeling good, bright, and clear. And a little bit proud of himself—he’d had those three shots of Maker’s Mark last night before getting down to work and managed to not drink anything else. It had to be something of a record, and a minor triumph.
He had another one of his headaches again, but nothing he couldn’t handle once he made it past the reporters, using the magical “no comment” phrase to push his way through. The receptionist, Lola, smiled and buzzed him in. She was in the middle of removing yesterday’s green polish and replacing it with a deep shade of indigo.
He spread out his papers and the mind map on the conference table and got to work. He went through the files here at the station – he didn’t have copies of everything back at the hotel – and finished his map. Frank hadn’t really found anything crucial, just a few more linkages between financial accounts and a mention, in one file, of an investigator’s suspicion that Nick Martin’s wife, Glenda, might have been unfaithful at some point in their marriage.
After, Frank found an empty computer to type up his notes from last night’s scouring of the records.
Chief King wandered over to check on Frank.
“I heard you were in early this morning.”
Frank nodded as King pulled a chair over and sat down.
“Yeah, I re-interviewed several city employees and ex-employees, all of whom were affected by the budget cuts pushed through by ‘Councilman’ Martin,” Frank said. “There was no love lost between them and Martin, I can tell you, but I didn’t get the vibe that any of them meant him any real harm.”
“Did you bring anyone over?” The police department shared the same building as the city government, separated by a windowed walkway between the two halves.
“No, I used their conference room over there.”
“Good,” Chief King said, nodding. “Glad to hear you’re going back over some of that, but it could have been embarrassing, walking city employees over here for interrogation. We might’ve rushed a few of those early leads and interviews, so double-checking them is good. What’s that?” King asked, pointing at the desk.
“Oh, that’s a mind map,” Frank said, handing it to King. “It’s a visual linkage of all the principals and how they’re related. An old partner swore by them when he was stuck on a case.”
King looked it over.
“Cool. I guess these are all already in my head,” the Chief said, “and everyone else that lives here in town, but it’s interesting to see them written down. The way they connect.”
Frank nodded and took the sheet back. It was a redone, compact version of the four sheets of paper taped to the window of his hotel room.
King lowered his voice. “Any breakthroughs?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m starting to think this is a deliberate campaign to bankrupt the Martins,” Frank said, shaking his head. “These kidnappers don’t just want money—they want revenge or justice. It changes who we need to be looking at in this case.”
“You’re right—with the second ransom demand, it feels very personal now,” King agreed. “Whoever is doing this wants to see Nick on his knees.”
Frank nodded. “And that’s exceptionally rare. I think we need to be looking again at all the people Nick put out of a job—city employees, old Martin Construction employees. This person wants payback, and he’s getting it, making Nick jump through all of these hoops. Sounds like a serious grudge.”
“What about the ransom on Saturday?” King asked.
“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “I was assuming it was a trick—sounds like the kind of thing someone would do, if they wanted to leave town without being followed. Tie up the entire police department at one location, as we sit on the ransom and wait for someone to show up.”
King nodded.
“Saturday’s going to busy,” the Chief said. “The ransom thing at noon and then the HarvestFest that night. And then the next morning they’re doing that prairie burn, which can generate a lot of smoke, and a lot of calls.”
“What’s the HarvestFest?” Frank asked. “I’ve seen signs.”
King nodded at a poster on the bulletin board. “Downtown fundraiser and Halloween party. The whole downtown will be packed, with lots of people in costumes. Most of us will work the event itself, providing security and cutting down on the ‘open container’ situations.”
Frank nodded. “Sounds like a great time to get up to no good, when every cop in town is busy.”
“No kidding,” King said, sighing. “So, you ready?” King asked, pointing at the door.
“Ready for what?”
“Lola was supposed to tell you. We’re heading over to the Martins,” King said. “Their psychic showed up.”
Frank shook his head.
“A colossal waste of time, but lead the way.”
Again, Chief King drove. Frank was really starting to like the limo treatment, getting driven everywhere. And in nicer cars than his, to boot. On the ride over, King passed over a folder of papers.
“Meredith Black, psychic.”
“Sounds like a made-up name, if I’ve ever heard one,” Frank answered, flipping open the file and reading.
“You’d be right,” King said. “She’s actually Meredith Peterson, originally from Texas. Got a following there doing her shtick—talking to the dead, making predictions on local television about the weather, that kind of thing. She helped locate a missing boy in San Antonio two years ago.”
Frank looked at King. “She got lucky?”
The Chief shook his head. “Who knows. At this point, I’m ready to call in the Easter Bunny, if it breaks the case. She’s probably full of shit, but I’ve read cases where those type of folks are particularly good at reading body language and teasing out leads from a minimum of information.”
“Helps them play their marks, I’d bet,” Frank said.
“True,” Chief King said, slowing down to stop at the light at Main and Hyatt. Up ahead, Frank saw the small veteran’s park with its white gazebo. “Many of these psychics are successful because they give the family hope. If they can pick up on the subtle clues the family is dropping, the psychic can feed off of it and give the family just enough hope to keep the money coming in,” King said, turning the police car onto South Hyatt. “But this lady doesn’t take any money up front.”
“It’s a good thing—the Martin’s are broke.” Frank scanned the rest of the file. The woman had managed to “sense” that the young boy in San Antonio was being kept in an underground location. Not an off-the-wall or particularly brave prediction to make, considering local law enforcement had been searching every structure in the county for three weeks. But the little boy had been recovered, and Meredith had come out of it looking like a star.
Shortly afterward, she’d moved to Los Angeles. For a while, she’d worked for something called the “Psychic Counselors Hotline,” doling out Tarot card readings and other predictions by phone. After a year of that, word of her spread, and she grew her following into a small retail shop and a stage show in a local theater. People evidently came from all over to hear her speak. There was even talk of a television show in the works.
They arrived at the Martin house. Out in front of the house, sat a large van in the driveway. It was different from the TV trucks and news vans parked on Hyatt in front of the Martin home. This new van had California license plates and dark windows. Frank had half-expected it to be purple in color and feature a large, airbrushed drawing of a crystal ball on the side of the van. Instead, it was just black, with no markings of any kind to give it away other than the vanity plates. Frank smiled at King, as they headed inside.
Walking through the door, Frank was hit by the smell of incense. He and King walked through to the kitchen and living room, but there was no one there.
“Hello?” King called out.
“We’re up here,” the voice of Nick Martin came from upstairs.
They climbed the wide, sweeping staircase and followed the sounds of people coming to what had to be Charlie Martin’s room. Frank could see posters of animals and brightly-colored furniture and pink decorations everywhere from where he and King stopped, just outside the room.
Nick Martin rolled his eyes and came out of the room. Sergeant Graves joined them as well.
“Sorry we’re late,” King said.
“But it’s okay,” Frank smirked. “She’s psychic, so she probably knew we were going to be late.”
“This is pointless,” Graves whispered, keeping his voice low, but not low enough—a young man with dark mascara inside the bedroom shot him a disapproving look.
Nick agreed. “I understand that Glenda wants to explore—”
King put up his hand.
“It will only take a few minutes, and it’s worth it, if it keeps your wife’s head in the game. And it can’t hurt—”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t agree. It’s false hope.”
The Chief shook his head and stepped into the room, followed by Frank. Nick and Graves stood in the doorway, watching the spectacle.
Inside, Glenda Martin was sitting on the bed and, next to her, a small plate of incense burned on the Dora the Explorer bedspread. Next to the plate, an older woman wearing far too much makeup waved the smoke into her face slowly, using both hands, and mumbled to Glenda.
The two women seemed to be ignoring the other people standing in the room—the four of them by the door, along with Detective Barnes and the young man Frank didn’t recognize. The young man must have arrived with the psychic. He was very thin, with jet black hair, dark mascara under his eyes, and many piercings in his ears and above his eyebrow. He reminded Frank of that young girl who’d been in the Tip Top Diner with her angry father and his shit-kicking boots. The young man was holding a notepad, taking notes with a pen with a long fuzzy tail of brightly-colored feathers sticking out of the top.
“I can feel her presence,” the psychic said.
“Sorry we’re late,” Chief King said, directing it to Glenda. Frank could see that she had been crying.
They stood quietly and listened for a few minutes, as Meredith went through the particulars of the case, asking Glenda questions about her daughter, the route to the school, and her daughter’s friends. Frank knew it was a waste of time, but if King was going to let it happen, Frank would hold his tongue.
“Was she close to her friends?” the psychic asked Glenda.
“That’s why they’re called ‘friends’,” Sergeant Graves commented quietly from the doorway. King shot him a look.
“Yes, they were,” Glenda answered, drying her eyes. “They walked together to school, all the time, but not that day. I just wish I had walked with them.”
Meredith looked down at the mother.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened, Glenda,” she said, stroking the mother’s hand gently. “I sense that you did everything that you could to keep her safe,” she said. Glenda nodded.
Meredith stood and walked around the room, picking up things and touching them. The scented smoke of the incense wafted around them as Meredith interacted with Charlie’s possessions, rubbing the young girl’s toys between her palms and closing her eyes.
Frank smirked.
“Looks like she’s trying to start a fire,” Frank said quietly to Graves, who smiled and nodded.
“I’m trying to get a sense of the room, Mr. Harper,” Meredith said loudly, not opening her eyes. “Your negative energy isn’t helping.”
Chief King looked at Frank, but Frank ignored him. It was more difficult to ignore the pained look on Glenda’s face, but Frank plowed on. He didn’t have time for this shit.
“I’m glad everyone else is enjoying the show,” Frank said, loudly. “But this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
The mousey assistant spoke up. “You should stay silent—Lady Meredith needs to work.”
Frank shook his head. “No, I need to work. And it’s ‘Lady’ Meredith now? I thought it was Meredith Black—or is it Peterson? I can’t keep track.”
The woman opened her eyes and looked at him for a long moment. She peered at him as one would notice a small animal, unworthy of attention. He held her gaze, staring back.
“Yes, I changed my name,” she said quietly, her eyes boring into him. “The cases I solved in Texas were very traumatic and took their toll, so I moved and changed my name. I was looking for a fresh start. But you know all about fresh starts, right, Mr. Harper? And trauma. Still enjoying your bourbon?”
Frank looked at her. He felt his hand go cold.
“That’s not relevant,” Frank barked.
“Isn’t it?” she countered, holding his gaze. “I think the only relevant thing about you is the possibility that you’re drunk. Right now,” she said, smiling.
Frank shook his head. “You can say whatever you want, but this is a waste of time,” Frank said, looking at the psychic. “We, the ACTUAL investigators, need to be out there, looking at leads and interviewing people. Not listening to you blather on about ‘auras’ and the same hokey bullshit that every pandering ‘psychic’ has been selling for two hundred years.”
She stood quietly, taking in his rant, enjoying it, reveling in it. She looked like she’d heard it all a thousand times before. It washed over her like a gentle rain.
As Frank spoke, she slowly smiled and waited for him to finish.