The fight was loud, and Gilman was telling the other guy to keep his voice down.
“ ‘Keep it down, asshole,’ ” she said out loud. “ ‘The walls have ears, even in a dump like this.’ ”
The words had flown right out. She hadn’t expected them, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
Grady held out his hands. “No! That’s great. Keep going. What else did he say?”
She jammed her eyelids together as tightly as she could and removed her hand from her mouth. “Oh my God… that’s never happened before.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t care. Keep going.”
“Um… Gilman wanted the other guy to do something, and the other guy didn’t want to do it.”
“What? What was the thing?”
She was at Castaways. Holding a microphone. Casting her psychic net around, hoping to catch a song. Whatever that mental muscle was, she struggled to use it without an electronic beat bouncing along and a screen with all the lyrics at the back of the bar.
“I don’t know. Something bad,” she finally said. “Something he didn’t want to do.”
“Something illegal, I assume.”
Eyes still closed, she shrugged. “You said totally ordinary, above-the-board deals are made every day in dumps like this.” Then she cracked one eye. “I’m kidding, of course.” Whatever flare of information had lit up in her brain, it dimmed and died altogether.
She opened both eyes, excited. “It worked! It kind of worked! I actually got something!”
“You sure did,” he said encouragingly. “Now have another piece of evidence and tell me if you get anything else.” He foisted another bag into her hands.
This one was smaller but heavier. Inside, she saw a torn envelope with more splashes of coffee. Unless it was blood. “Is this blood?”
“That one’s blood, yes.”
She didn’t let herself cringe. She wasn’t actually bothered by it, now that she was holding it in her hand—with a sanitary piece of clear plastic between her and the dried-up bodily fluids. She tried again, fondling the paper and hearing it crinkle.
“Any chance you can tell me what used to be inside it?”
“Photographs,” she said without hesitation. “One showed a man and a car. There was an address on the back.”
He lit up. “An address!”
“Don’t get too excited, I only saw it for a second—and not very clearly, at that. The car was silver, and expensive. A Mercedes, I think. The man was in his fifties or thereabouts. Maybe his sixties, if he takes good care of himself. A real silver fox.”
“Hm…” he said, as if it made him think of something.
Leda was on a roll. A rickety, intermittent, half-assed roll. “It’s not like anyone took out a hit on the guy. I think it was something else. Insider trading?” she guessed wildly.
“Nope. Something a little bigger than that.”
Her eyes snapped open. “How do you know?”
“Because I think I know who the silver fox is. I can find out with a phone call if he drives a Mercedes, but I’d be stunned if he didn’t. I’ll find out when I get back to the precinct.”
“That’s not fair!” she complained. “I want to know what’s going on! Details help me, just like they help you. Remember?”
“Yeah, but this conversation puts my job at risk. It would even if we weren’t having it at a crime scene.”
“It’s a very old crime scene.”
“It’s not that old. Here, try something else.” He handed her a plastic-wrapped pen that was broken in the middle. “How about this?”
Leda took it, and immediately received an image. A foot, stepping on it. Tripping, almost—then recovering on the way out the door. “He slipped on it.”
“Who?”
“The killer. He was leaving, and this was on the floor. He smashed it with his shoe, stumbled, and kept going. Opened the door.” She held out her hand, like she was reaching for a phantom knob. “The other guy had barged in on them.”
“Kevin.”
“The son, yeah. I think it’s him. He’s younger and better-looking than the first guy.”
“But you’re not sure?” Grady pushed.
“Man, I’m not sure about any of this. This was your idea, and you promised you wouldn’t get mad if nothing came out of it.”
“I know, I know. I’m just… eager.”
Leda was eager, too, but she had the very distinct feeling that whatever she’d tapped into was out of juice. She didn’t feel even the slightest tingle, twitch, or flash. “I know, but I’m afraid that’s all there is for today. I’m not getting anything else.”
“Does that mean you won’t get anything else or that you aren’t getting anything else right now?”
“Holy Moses, dude. You’re trying to apply a rigorous scientific standard to something that kind of… comes and goes, and mostly sounds bugnuts insane if I talk about it out loud. I don’t know what to tell you. It comes. It goes. It comes again later, unless it doesn’t. I can’t pull clues out of my ass just because you want them really, really bad.”
“Yeah, I got it. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put all this pressure on you.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped the last piece of evidence. It joined the others in her lap. “It’s not your fault. I honestly appreciate this exercise. If I’m going to have some special gift, or talent, or whatever you want to call it, I should maybe put it to some use other than karaoke.”
“Karaoke?”
“Um… I do this karaoke thing.” And while he collected all the evidence bags and stuffed them back into his messenger bag, she explained klairvoyant karaoke.
He tried not to laugh but laughed a little regardless. “That sounds amazing. I love it. When do you do it?”
“Whenever the fancy strikes me. Maybe… several times a week?”
“At Castaways? On Cap Hill?”
She nodded. “Niki’s boyfriend runs the place; I think I told you. I know it sounds dorky, but it’s been my only outlet for this psychic stuff, until this. I really feel like I flexed some new muscles today. So if you, um… if you have another case or anything, or if you get any good hits off anything I said…”
“You will absolutely be the first to hear about it,” he vowed.
He closed the flap on his bag while she climbed to her feet and brushed imaginary dust off the top of her thighs—as if the dried blood or bits of coffee had managed to escape their sealed plastic packages. Then he opened the door and held it for her, and together they walked to their cars.
Leda reached hers first. “Thanks again,” she said.
“No, thank you for your time.” He held out his hand for a goodbye shake.
She took it, shook it, and had the most blinding flash of woo-woo psychic shit in her whole entire life so far.
And then.
Then she passed out cold.
8.
“I don’t know!” Grady Merritt said, waving his hands at the hotel manager and the EMT like he was trying to claw his way out of a spiderweb. “It was like I’d accidentally tased her or something—which I did not. She was fine; we were saying goodbye. I shook her hand; she shrieked and fell over!”