Lethal Outlook: A Psychic Eye Mystery (17 page)

“I love it,” I said, cutting him off before he took up my entire night talking about the granite.

Dave smiled like he’d just scored ten yards in the fourth quarter. And I wanted to scowl at him, but the truth was that the granite sample he’d just shown me was absolutely gorgeous and I loved it instantly. “Knew you’d like it,” he said, moving that to the side.

For the next hour and a half Dave took me slowly and methodically through every single choice, from cabinets to countertops to backsplash to molding to bathroom tile and everything in between. I had to hand it to him, because most of what he showed me was exactly my taste, and even those selections where I would have gone lighter or softer, I could see that Dave had picked the sample as a compromise between my taste and Dutch’s.

“That does it,” he said at last, after showing me the photos of the lighting fixtures he’d selected for the outside of the house. “So what do you say?”

I grinned at him and reached for his hand. “I sometimes forget what a good friend you are, Dave. Sorry about that.”

My handyman actually blushed. “So that’s a yes?”

I laughed. “It’s a yes and an invitation.”

“An invitation? To what?”

“Dinner,” I said. “I want you to stay for dinner.”

Dave grinned too. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Since Dutch was still stuck at the office, I had to “cook” dinner. And by “cook” I mean dial the phone and order a pizza. Still, it was a delicious pie—when I cook I go all out—and by the time Dave left around nine, we were both in a pretty good doughy-cheesy food coma. I was on my way up the stairs when the front door opened and in came my hunka man.

“Hey, cowboy!” I said, happy he was home. But then I happened to see his face and I knew it’d been a tough day.

“Mmrrph,” he mumbled, heading straight to the kitchen.

I followed him. “I made dinner!” I sang, hoping my good cheer would help bring him out of the grumps.

“Mmrrph,” he muttered again, twisting the cap off a fresh bottle of scotch. Dutch went for the hard stuff only when his day was
really
bad.

“It’s pizza!” I told him, my voice heavy on the enthusiasm. He didn’t even reply; he merely poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass and downed it in one gulp. Uh-oh.

“I’ll just warm it up for you,” I said helpfully, moving to get him a plate and put a couple of slices into the microwave.

“I’m not hungry,” he grumbled, pouring another two fingers into the glass before taking it—and the bottle—out to the living room.

I hit the button on the microwave, waited for the cheese to get good and gooey, then brought the plate back to the
living room. Holding it in front of my sweetie, I said, “I’m guessing your last meal was around noon, right?”

Dutch was sitting sullenly on the couch, his drink in one hand and the remote in the other. “We didn’t have time for lunch,” he said moodily.

Since I’d seen Dutch scarf down only a slice of toast that morning, I knew that at least some of his current mood could be attributed to low blood sugar.

I put the pizza on the coffee table and sat down next to him. “No breaks in the mall-bombing case?”

“Nope.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but his eyes were staring hard at the TV. ESPN was running football highlights. After a stretch of silence during which Dutch just sipped his drink and stared listlessly at the TV, I got up and brought him back a napkin, hoping he’d get the hint.

I set it on his knee and vowed not to say another word about it. The last thing I wanted to be was one of those nagging women who treat their mates like children.

Five more minutes passed and Dutch poured himself another two fingers of scotch.

My finger started to tap the top of my knee.

Ten more minutes passed; all the while Dutch stared at the TV and just sipped away at his drink.

I played with the tassel on one of the throw pillows, ignoring the pizza, on which the cheese had now recongealed.

Siiiip,
went Dutch.

I took an interest in the curtains. Had I picked out curtains with Dave?

Siiiip.

No. We’d picked out blinds. That’s right. Shutters actually, which would give the windows a great modern feel.

Siiiip.

What color were the shutters again? Oh, yeah, they were dark like the floors. They’d go really well with the granite in the kitchen too.

Siiiip.

I wondered if I should tell Dutch about wrapping up the house decor with Dave? (
Siiip.
) Yes. Yes, I should. That’d help lighten the mood maybe. Ease his mind that we’d be moving into the new home soon. (
Siiiip.
) And wouldn’t he be happy to hear that?

Plastering a sweet smile onto my face, I turned to tell him all about it just as he was raising the glass to his lips again.
“Will you please eat something?”

Dutch jumped, spilling his drink, and then he cut me a look that could cool five-alarm chili. “Abs,” he said, his voice even and hard. “I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

I snatched the drink out of his hand, spilling much of the rest of it on the couch. “You want this back, you’ll eat a piece of that pizza!”

I knew Dutch well, and I’d seen him drink a little too much on an empty stomach before, only to wake up with a killer hangover the next morning and indigestion for several days after that.

His brow furrowed angrily, and instead of reaching for the pizza, he grabbed the bottle of scotch and took a sip right from it, glaring at me the whole time.

“Nice,”
I told him.

“What’s with you, anyway?” he grumbled.

“It’s not me,” I said in a raised voice as I slammed the glass on top of the coffee table. “It’s
you
.”

“I’m a grown man, Edgar. If I want to have a couple drinks, I can have a couple drinks.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you can, you idiot. And I will even be your personal bartender this evening if you want. But you know how you are the day after you drink on an empty stomach. You’re hungover, irritable, and suffering from indigestion for days afterward. How’re you going to be able to focus at work tomorrow, Dutch, feeling like shih tzu?”

It took a few seconds, but the angry, defensive glint in Dutch’s midnight blues softened, and at last he inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Then, without a word, he set down the bottle of scotch and reached for the plate of pizza.

I turned my attention to the TV and let him eat in silence. He polished off all three pieces…surprise, surprise.

Around ten I felt a hand gently stroke the back of my head. “Sorry, Edgar,” he said softly.

I shifted on the sofa and cuddled up close to him. “I’m sorry you had a bad day, cowboy.”

“Thanks, dollface.”

“You guys are really having no luck solving your case?”

“Nope,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Everywhere we turn, we keep coming up empty. And I’ll admit that today I came very close to breaking down and calling you for help.”

I turned in surprise to look at him and found his expression riddled with guilt. I smoothed down a lock of his blond
hair and said, “Sweetie, this isn’t a case that I’m going to solve. My crew is practically forbidding me to get involved.”

Dutch pulled his own head back in surprise. “Why’s that?” I could see some worry in his eyes again.

I laughed it off. “Oh, probably because there’s a danger of my leading you in the wrong direction. You know how the ether is always subject to interpretation.”

“Huh,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yeah, well, it could happen, you know. Anyway, I’ve already sensed that you guys will be the ones to solve the case without my help, so even though it seems like you’ve hit a roadblock and aren’t making progress, try not to get too frustrated. You’ll solve it. I know it.”

Dutch squeezed me to him and kissed the top of my head. We sat in comfortable silence until I thought of something. “I’m guessing you haven’t had time to meet with Cat in the past day or two, huh?”

His heavy sigh told me even before the words were out of his mouth. “No. But that didn’t stop her from leaving me eight hundred messages.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, you should do what I did,” I said. “Make an appointment with her for sometime when you know you’ll be free, and tackle all the big decisions at once.”

Dutch pulled away to look curiously down at me. “You met with Dave?”

I grinned smugly up at him. “I did. And I picked out everything from floors to crown molding.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I’m done, cowboy. And our house should be ready in about three to four weeks! If the guys work hard, we can move in right before the wedding.”

Dutch reached for the scotch again. “I knew I should’ve had you toss the coin.”

T
he next week passed without a single lead in the Kendra Moreno case. I didn’t know who was more anxious about it—me or Candice. At least I didn’t know until I arrived at my office for a ten a.m. appointment with a client and found my partner hunched over her computer with several discarded cardboard coffee cups littering her desktop.

“Hey, Cassidy,” I said cordially from the doorway. (Okay, so I said it more carefully than cordially, but only because she had a bit of a crazy look going on.)

“Mellobby,” Candice grunted. I almost heard a “hello” and my name in there, but I wasn’t certain.

Not knowing what to say to that, I continued to hover in her doorway, and without even taking her eyes off her computer screen, Candice blindly grabbed for one of the cardboard coffee cups, slugged down the contents like it was a shot of tequila, and went back to peering at her computer screen.

“How’s it going?” I asked, still trying to feel out how nervous I should be about finding her in such a state. It looked very much like she’d slept at her desk—if she’d slept at all, which, given the copious amounts of caffeine she’d obviously ingested and the disheveled cast to her appearance, I seriously doubted.

“Mmph,” she said.

Walking slowly and carefully…the way you’d move around an ornery tiger, let’s say…I eased into her office and sat in the seat opposite her. “Candice?”

“Mmph?”

I waited for her to lift her eyes. She didn’t. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my cane, extending it slowly forward over the top of her desk, and with a quick poke I shut the lid of her laptop. “Hey!” she yelled.

“Honey,” I said evenly, keeping my cane firmly on the top of her computer. “What’s going on here?”

Candice’s eyes darted around the room, kinda like a wild animal looking for the nearest exit. “What?”

“How many cups of coffee have you had?”

Candice blinked. Then she seemed to take in the top of her desk. “A few.”

“I count seven.” Leaning over to hook her wastepaper basket with my cane, I pulled it closer. “Make that nine.”

“I like coffee.”

“Honey, Juan Valdez doesn’t like coffee that much.”

Candice rubbed her face. “I was working on something. I needed to stay awake.”

“How long have you been here?”

Candice sighed and leaned back in her chair. I could see that her hands were shaking from all the caffeine. “I don’t know. Since sometime last night.”

I reached out and pulled her laptop close. Swiveling it around, I opened the lid and took a peek. “This is a spreadsheet.”

“Yep,” Candice said quietly.

“How many names are on here?” I asked. The spreadsheet had rows and columns of names, but why they were listed or who they were was nothing I could quickly make sense of.

“About sixty. Maybe seventy,” she said, giving me no more detail than that.

I cocked my head. “Wanna tell me what this means? Or would you rather continue to keep me in suspense?”

Candice got up and stretched. “I’ve been putting together a spreadsheet of Kendra’s friends and acquaintances and cross-referencing them with Bailey’s friends and acquaintances,” she explained. “If we assume Tristan isn’t our murderer—but let me be clear: no one’s off the table here—and he is telling the truth about coming home and finding his wife missing, then we also have to assume the unlocked and partially open front door indicates that someone came to visit Kendra between the hours of eleven a.m. and four p.m. It’s light enough outside at four o’clock to see whoever’s outside on the front step; therefore, Kendra
must
have trusted whomever she let in the door. If there were no signs of struggle, I’m going to further assume that she was attacked pretty quick, maybe when her back was turned to lead the killer into her house. Maybe he pounced then and overpowered her right away. By drugging her with something in a syringe or hitting her hard enough in the lower back to cause some sort of paralysis, he would have been able to drag her or carry her out the back door in about a minute to a minute and a half.”

I stared in surprise at my partner. She’d obviously been thinking this through quite thoroughly.

“Now,” she went on in a voice loud enough to cause me to jump, “at the Moreno residence, I remember seeing a set of key hooks, and there was only one set on the hooks there,” Candice said, her movements animated and jittery. “I think the killer simply lifted Kendra up, slung her over his shoulder, and carried her out the back door, taking her keys and her car as he went. He then took her to a remote location, raped her, beat her, and smothered her; then he buried her in the woods somewhere—probably not very deep…what, maybe two or three feet if he was in a hurry?”

I had personal experience with hurried woodland grave digging, but I held back revealing that particular top secret and allowed Candice to continue her rant. “So say it takes the killer half an hour to get to any one of the six nearby greenbelts, then find a secluded spot—we’re talking another fifteen minutes or so—park the car, get her out, do all that terrible business to her, then bury her…he could have been finished with the whole thing in, what? Two, three hours tops?”

Candice wasn’t really asking me these questions; she was just rattling them off and figuring them out on her own. But so far I’d kept my radar attuned to what she was saying, and for the most part I found that what was in the ether wasn’t much different from what Candice was saying.