Lethal Outlook: A Psychic Eye Mystery (9 page)

“Yep,” she said. “Nancy and Gary Woodyard. I saw them interviewed on the late news. They look like reasonable people.”

The Woodyards lived not far from their daughter and son-in-law on the east side of town in a beautiful community overlooking a bucolic man-made lake. Their house had a very small front yard, a bit out of proportion for the rest of the home, which was a large contemporary structure with a mosaic pattern of dark and light sandstone set against the front and sides. Hunter green aluminum siding with coral trim gave color to the second story, and the whole thing was capped off by a silver tin roof. The effect was striking and really made the house stand out from its neighbors.

“Nice digs,” I said when we’d gotten out of the car and began walking up the steps.

“Excuse me!” said a voice down the sidewalk.

“Keep walking,” Candice muttered out of the side of her mouth.

I did, but I happened to glance over my shoulder at the voice. I could see a redheaded reporter I recognized from the
local news hurrying toward us. “Are you friends of Kendra’s?” she asked when it was clear we weren’t going to respond.

Candice walked purposefully up the steps, and I was right next to her.

“Extended family?” the reporter asked next.

“Don’t look and don’t say a word, Abs,” Candice warned softly as she pressed the bell.

“Have you heard from Kendra?” the reporter called, desperate for a quote from someone,
anyone
, that she could use on the next news broadcast. “Do you know where she is?”

Candice and I waited with our backs to the reporter, who didn’t approach the house but remained on the sidewalk. I was silently cursing the Woodyards’ small yard when footsteps from inside echoed through the door to us. A moment later I had the feeling that someone was peering out at us. “Who is it?” asked a woman’s voice.

Candice held up her badge and her FBI ID. “Candice Fusco and Abigail Cooper, ma’am. We’re consultants with the FBI and we’d like to talk with you.”

As nonchalantly as I could, I turned my head a little and saw the reporter scribbling furiously onto her notepad. She’d heard Candice’s every word. “Great,” I muttered. When Candice looked at me I indicated the reporter. Candice eyed her too and sent the woman a dark look.

The door was opened a tiny crack and one hazel eye and part of a nose appeared. “You’re with the FBI?”

“We’re consultants for them,” Candice corrected. I knew even she’d be careful not to indicate that we’d actually been sent by the bureau.

The brow above the hazel eye lowered suspiciously. “You consult with them but you’re not actually with them?”

I could feel Candice’s energy working hard to appear pleasant and patient, but with the reporter right behind us taking notes, she’d have to be careful about what she said or it would be all over the five-o’clock news. “Are you Mrs. Woodyard?” she inquired.

“I asked my question first,” the woman said stubbornly. I wondered at her attitude, but then I remembered the way the press was currently hounding Kendra’s husband. Maybe they’d already tested the patience of Kendra’s parents too.

“Yes, ma’am,” Candice said contritely. “I’m so sorry. Abigail and I consult on a regular basis with the FBI. Abby used to work full-time at their bureau office downtown, in fact. Abs, show her your badge.”

I dug through my purse and pulled up my own plastic-encased ID. I held it up to my face and smiled to mirror the photo.

The hazel eye swiveled back and forth between us. “What do you want?” she asked at last.

“We heard about your daughter’s disappearance, and we’d like to offer our professional services,” Candice said. When the woman showed no signs of opening the door wider than the crack, Candice added, “I promise you, ma’am, we’re on the level here. May we please come in and talk to you?”

The eye stared at us for another couple of beats before finally pulling back. The door swung open to reveal a woman with gray hair, pale skin, and a blue mole on her upper lip. “I’ll give you five minutes,” she said curtly.

I discreetly cast Candice a look that said, “This should be fun!”

She cut me a look that said, “Behave!”

We stepped through the doorway without a word and into the foyer. In front of us was the staircase to the second floor, and to our immediate left was the dining room. The woman—whom I assumed was Kendra’s mother—closed the door, locking it tightly before motioning for us to follow her. We passed a spacious study and a bathroom and finally came into a large open kitchen with dark chocolate cabinets, white marble countertops, and a central island with three counter-level chairs.

Flanking the kitchen was a cozy living room with two sofas and a large-screen TV set over the fireplace. Sitting numbly in one corner of the sofa was a sickly looking gentleman hooked up to an oxygen tank. He lifted his sad eyes to us, and I nodded and offered a polite smile. He didn’t smile back.

“Gary, these two are from the FBI,” said the woman. She still hadn’t identified herself, but it was pretty clear that she was Mrs. Woodyard.

Candice walked across the floor right up to Kendra’s father and extended her hand to him. “We’re consultants at the bureau, Mr. Woodyard. We’re not actually agents or here on official FBI business.”

He took her hand and eyed her with interest. “You’re here about Kendra?”

“Yes,” Candice said. Waving her hand in my direction, she added, “This is my partner, Abigail Cooper. I’m a licensed
private investigator and we saw Kendra’s story on the news the other day. We felt strongly that we wanted to come to you and offer our investigative expertise.”

“For a price,” Mrs. Woodyard said (a bit snippily, I thought).

“Our hourly rates are quite reasonable,” Candice assured her.

“The police are free,” she countered, looking meanly at us. Man, this woman didn’t give an inch!

Still, Candice nodded like she agreed. “Yes, they are. And if you’d like to put all your trust in them and their ability to find your daughter, then please do so.”

Mrs. Woodyard shifted on her feet. She didn’t appear to have a snappy comeback to that.

“May I ask how that investigation is proceeding?” Candice asked gently when the silence stretched out a bit.

“It’s way past the seventy-two-hour mark,” Mr. Woodyard said, his voice so forlorn that it hurt to hear it. “The detectives said that if Kendra didn’t turn up within seventy-two hours, then it could mean the worst. It could mean that it wasn’t her choice to leave the house that day.”

“Of course it wasn’t her choice, Gary!” his wife snapped. “Kendra would
never
leave Colby home alone.”

Mr. Woodyard stared at the floor. Of the two, I could see he’d been the most hopeful that his daughter had somehow left her home of her own accord and might come to her senses and be back soon. I knew he would suffer a terrible blow when he discovered the truth—that she was gone for good—and sensing the illness wafting out of him as
evidenced by the oxygen tank, I truly didn’t look forward to that.

“We haven’t heard anything from the detectives in over a day, Nancy,” Mr. Woodyard said. “Maybe we should bring in some outside help.”

But I could already tell that Mrs. Woodyard had hardened to the point where she didn’t want any outside help. She wanted us out of her house, and she wanted to wait for the police to tell her what had happened to her daughter. I didn’t know if it was because she was cheap or just naturally suspicious of everyone and everything. I didn’t really care either. She had an element of meanness about her, and I suspected that Kendra and she hadn’t gotten on so well. “What’re your hourly rates?” she asked, and not like she was genuinely interested, but more to appease her husband.

Candice told her, and Mrs. Woodyard reacted as if we’d said a thousand dollars a second. “That’s
outrageous
!”

“It’s actually below the industry standard,” Candice replied calmly. “Investigating a missing person is more work than it appears. But if it would make you more comfortable, we could agree to work the case until either it’s resolved to your satisfaction or we reach the end of our retainer. If it’s the latter, then whatever we discover we will turn over to you and you may offer it to the police or to another PI if you wish.”

I noted that Mr. Woodyard hadn’t looked put off by the rate Candice had quoted. “What can you offer that the police can’t?” he asked.

Candice pointed meaningfully at me. “Abby,” she said. “She’s an intuitive investigator with ten years’ experience and
dozens of solved cases to her credit. She’s worked for the Royal Oak, Michigan, PD, the Denver PD, the FBI, and the CIA. Her credentials and reputation are impeccable. To my own credit, I’ve also had a dozen years’ experience as a PI and FBI consultant. As investigators go, Mr. Woodyard, we’re very good, and we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t know we could help you find out what happened to Kendra.”

Mr. Woodyard appeared interested; however, his wife was a whole different story. She squinted first at me, then at Candice. “Hold on,” she said as she pointed at me but addressed Candice. “She’s a…a…what did you say? An
intuitive
investigator? What the hell is that?”

“I’m a professional psychic, ma’am,” I told her. “I’ve had my own private practice for over ten years, and, like Candice said, I’ve worked dozens of cases for various police departments and federal investigators.”

Mrs. Woodyard hardly seemed impressed. In fact, she appeared downright offended. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“No,” Candice replied in that same calm manner. “Abby’s the real deal, ma’am.”

Mrs. Woodyard rolled her eyes and cast a meaningful look at her husband before she went over to a stack of papers about twenty pages thick. Holding them up like they were evidence in a courtroom, she said, “And these are also so-called psychics who’ve been sending us messages on Kendra’s personal Facebook page, claiming to know where our daughter is!” Sorting through them with obvious disdain, she pulled one out of the stack and said, “This says that Kendra is in the South of France on the beach with her new lover. While this
one,” she growled, flipping to the next page, “says Kendra has been kidnapped by a Mexican drug lord and is being used as a sex slave!”

“Ma’am,” Candice said, discreetly stepping closer to me. “I can assure you that Abby is both experienced and held in high esteem by this nation’s top investigative bureaus.”

Mrs. Woodyard, however, wasn’t listening. Flipping to the last page, she pulled out yet another e-mail and angrily said, “This one is my personal favorite. It says that Kendra was buried alive and left in a wooded area, and that she was murdered by a man she had once trusted!”

My radar binged. A legitimate psychic actually
had
contacted the Woodyards, although perhaps that psychic’s methods had been a bit too forthcoming for these two just yet.

Candice held up her hands in surrender. “Mrs. Woodyard, I’m afraid we may have gotten off on the wrong foot—”

“Thank you, but no, thank you,” Mr. Woodyard cut in while he struggled to get to his feet. “We don’t believe in psychics, no matter how many claims they make about who they’ve worked with.”

I felt my spirits fall. I’d been hoping for his support at least. And that comment, “We don’t believe in psychics…,” always cut into me like a sharp sword. It was as if someone was suggesting I didn’t exist. Being psychic was so much a part of who I was that it always shocked me when people suggested it—and by extension I—wasn’t real.

But then I looked into Mr. Woodyard’s eyes and I saw the fear there. It wasn’t fear of me; he was afraid of what I might tell him about what had happened to his daughter. He wasn’t
ready to hear the truth yet, and until the police had a solid lead, he could continue believing that Kendra was still alive and would return home safe and sound.

I focused on him, determined to prove to him that I wasn’t a fraud and shake him out of his cloud of denial. “We understand,” I said gently. “It takes a certain open-mindedness to accept that what I do is real. But, Mr. Woodyard, if I may, your doctor has some good news about that clinical trial she’s been trying to get you into. You’ll be getting a call very soon from her to tell you that you’ve been accepted into the program, and I can tell you that you won’t be given the placebo; you’ll get the real deal. The experimental drugs will tackle that tumor in your right lung and shrink it down to nothing. It’s the genetic engineering tied to your DNA that’ll make all the difference in the drug’s effectiveness. You’re going to make it, sir.”

The sickly man’s jaw fell open slightly as he stared at me with big, wide eyes. I then wished him and his equally stunned wife a good day, turned on my heel, and headed to the door without a backward glance.

“S
how-off,” Candice chuckled as we buckled our seat belts.

I shook my head, regretting what I’d just done inside the Woodyards’ home. “I know, I know,” I told her. “It would’ve been better to just keep my mouth shut.”

Candice eyed me like I’d just said something shocking. “Are you kidding?”

“No. You’re right. I was showing off a little. It just pissed me off that they were turning away legitimate help out of ignorance and fear.”