“Who says that? And where?”
Leda was only half paying attention when she replied, “Somebody, someplace.” She was looking at her stats for the Facebook ad, and deciding whether to spend more money to boost the signal even further. Then she pulled up her bank account and decided to try again later. Money was running too low for risky measures.
“I know that look,” Niki said.
“What look?”
“The look of worry. What’s wrong?”
She hemmed. She hawed. “Nothing’s wrong. Usual stuff. Costs of doing business. Growing pains, budgeting concerns, et cetera.”
“You’re broke.”
“No, not yet,” she insisted. “My overhead is low, my equipment is all tax-deductible, and I don’t have any employees to pay. Also, I am very fond of ramen noodles. I live cheap, Nik. I can do business cheap, too. I don’t actually need that many clients to stay afloat.”
“If you say so, girl. How close are you to meeting rent on this place, this month?”
“Super close. If either one of these two new emails pans out, then I’ll have it covered,” she said with confidence.
“You say that like you don’t suck at math.”
“I don’t suck as much as you do. I’ve been careful. Just trust me.”
Niki smiled and stared at the ceiling. “I always trust you. But I always worry about you, too.” Then she shifted gears. “Hey, did you mean what you told Grady? That you were just having a perfectly normal migraine?”
“Sure, I meant it. I wish I had more for him. Maybe I should’ve touched Keyes. Or even his coffee cup, or… I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of control over this. I never have.”
“Didn’t you shake his hand?” Niki asked.
“No, I forgot.”
“But still, you’re getting better! I know you are. I’ve seen it in action myself.”
Ordinarily, Leda agreed with almost anything that came out of Niki’s mouth, but this time, she balked. “Am I, though? Serious question. I know we were talking about all the practice I’m getting at Castaways, but what if it’s just a fluke? Keeping Grady off that plane, flashing on those objects in the hotel room… those were pretty high-powered events for me. What if I’m still just an inconsequential psychic, and I’m merely lucky enough to have the occasional breakthrough that’s useful to somebody?”
Niki sat up again—leaving her bum leg elevated but putting her other one on the floor so she sprawled obscenely. “Okay, first of all, I don’t think that’s true. I’ve known you almost forever, and I’ve watched you learn and grow with this. If you ask me, your skills are definitely on an upward trajectory. And second, even if it were true—so what? It’s still a gift that practically nobody on earth has, in real life. Who cares if it’s a little janky?”
“Um, the people who rely on it, that’s who.”
“News flash, babe: Detective Merritt is not relying on you. He’s bringing you along just in case you have some supernatural flash of insight. He’s not actually counting on you doing so. He’s a cop. A real cop. He’s gotten this far in his career without a psychic sidekick, and he’ll be fine without one in the future, too.”
Leda groaned and kicked her spinny chair away from the desk. “Oh God, you’re right. I’m useless.”
“Nobody said that! Jesus, woman. I’m only saying you’re not the lynchpin in these proceedings. If you fail to produce any psychic insights, or if you screw up wildly… it doesn’t actually matter very much. This guy’s using you as a Hail Mary, on the off chance you can help him solve a tricky old case. Don’t give yourself too much credit; but also, don’t underestimate yourself.”
“That’s, I mean, I guess it’s decent advice.”
“It’s excellent advice, because I’m brilliant. And you trust me, I know you do. So listen to me. Believe the Nik. The Nik has your best interest at heart, and she believes in you.”
“The Nik? That’s what you’re calling yourself now?”
She nodded. “I kind of enjoy having an article before my name.”
“I’m not going to call you ‘the Nik.’ ”
“No, of course not. You’ll refer to me as the Nik when discussing me with others. You’ll still call me whatever you want.”
Leda dragged her chair by her tippy-toes, pulling it back up to the desk. “I always have, and I always will.” She took hold of her mouse and called up a web browser.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing psychic, don’t worry. I’m googling.”
“Who?”
“Everybody,” Leda informed her, fingers clicking away on the keyboard.
One of the only skills Leda ever crowed about was her superlative typing speed. She could also type one thing while reading another. Niki always said it was spooky, but Leda shrugged it off. It was an ordinary talent, that’s what she’d say.
“Starting with…?”
“Beckmeyer. The silver fox.”
Leda learned virtually nothing about him, except that he was a semiretired dilettante with money who liked to hop between gigs for giggles. Then she tried Janette Gilman and learned only that she’d recently gone to Italy to see her grandmother—if her Instagram could be believed—so to hell with her. “I don’t like her,” she declared.
“Why? Because she went out of town and didn’t consult you first?”
“Yes. No. Because when it comes to murder, it’s almost always the spouse, that’s why.”
“You haven’t even met this woman yet.”
“We’re gonna meet her soon, and I want to be prepared,” said Leda. “Ooh, she was married once before.”
“So?”
“So…” Leda typed rapidly, scanning a couple of links before settling in to read. It took only half a minute. “So… never mind. Her first husband died of natural causes, a couple of years after they divorced. Looks like she’s not a black widow.”
“If she’s any good at being a black widow, you won’t find any evidence of it on the internet.”
“All knowledge is contained within the internet!” Leda protested. “Even if it’s found in rumors on Reddit, or wherever.”
“Okay, are you finding any rumors about either one of them on Reddit?”
“No,” she sulked. “Nothing I didn’t already know or couldn’t guess. Janette and her first husband were pretty rich, they traveled together a lot, and they sold the house when they split up. Looks like she married Christopher Gilman fairly soon thereafter; they were probably carrying on behind her husband’s back. Ooh… slutty. I like it. Rich people have the most interesting lives.”
“You don’t actually know that, you conclusion-jumping maniac. Google somebody else. Try the Victorian orphan. That Abbot Keyes guy.”
Leda nodded at the screen. “Good call.”
She clicked around for a couple of minutes without saying anything.
Niki asked, “Well?”
“He’s got a Facebook page, all locked down, so I can’t see anything but his picture—but that’s him. I can’t tell if he ever posts to it, but a single grainy profile photo suggests that it’s not much of a priority. He had a Twitter account, but it was deleted a few months ago, if the Google cache can be believed. Maybe he’s just not into social media much. Oh well, that was a bust.” Leda leaned back in her chair and lifted her feet so it would do a slow, thoughtful spin. After a few rotations, she concluded, “Hey, you know what? I don’t want to do Castaways tonight.”