She laughed. “Okay, that can’t literally be true. But it’s pretty close. Stay there, Dad. Have fun.”
“Okay. I’ll see you when I get home.”
They each hung up, and Grady put his phone in his pocket. Then he headed back into the main bar area, where he grabbed a little two-seater table by the wall and threw his jacket over one of the chairs before venturing over to the bar. There, a pretty green-haired black girl greeted him with, “Hey there, handsome. What are you having?”
“Uh…” He wasn’t a big drinker, and she’d caught him off guard. “Whiskey sour?”
“Coming right up! You sitting at the table over there?” She cocked her head at his jacket, slung across the chair.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I saw you come in with Leda and Nik. I’ll bring it over when it’s made, or have Matt do it for me. Sit tight and enjoy the show.”
“You’ve seen it before, I assume?”
“Oh yeah.” She leaned forward on the bar, signaling to another patron that she’d be with him in a moment. “It’s really cool; I’m not gonna lie. I don’t know how she does it.”
“She’s psychic.”
“Okay, I know that. I just find it kind of hard to imagine. How weird, right? Knowing things that nobody else knows, and most of the time, nobody believes you.”
“I believe her. She saved my life.”
“For real?” She cocked her head at him. “What’d she do?”
“She kept me off a plane that crashed.” It occurred to Grady that the bartender was only the second person he’d told, after his daughter.
“Wow… that’s… that’s heavy. I love it, though. I’m glad you’re still here, man.” She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Grady went and took his seat, and before long a good forty or fifty curious patrons had taken every stool at the bar and most of the tables.
A tall, thin man with fluffy dark hair and tattoos peeking out of his sleeves came onstage. The stage itself wasn’t much bigger than a good-size dining room table, and the single microphone looked rickety and lonesome until he took it in his hands.
“Good evening, everyone!” he announced. “I’m Matt Cline, manager of this bar—and I want to welcome you here tonight.” He paused for a smattering of applause. “I know you’re all here to witness some klairvoyant karaoke, and”—a woman tapped his shoulder and handed him a flyer—“or… the psychic psongstress? Oh yeah, that’s right. Goddammit, Ben. Anyway, tonight we have, for your listening pleasure… Leda Foley, a woman with many talents, not least of all her voice. She’ll be up here in just a few minutes. Thanks for your patience.” He set the mic back into the stand before he hopped down off the stage and disappeared behind it.
Grady settled into his seat and nursed his drink, pleased with himself for being out of the house, participating in an adult activity. The evening wasn’t a work event, filled with cops doing cop socializing; it wasn’t a family thing, with his former in-laws or stray members from his own relations passing through town. It wasn’t about his daughter, or any high school event. He was free to be a grown-up, with a grown-up drink, in a grown-up establishment, after work with no obligations to haunt or distract him.
Then someone grabbed the empty chair across the table from him—and his daughter sat down. She smiled the smile of a teenager who has figured something out, made something happen, and now had surprised her father so thoroughly that he did not know what to say.
“You? What? Here?” He looked back at the door. “In a bar?”
“I told the guy at the door that I was with you. He asked who you were, and I told him you’d come here with the psychic singer, and you were working on a case together. I told him you were a cop, and you could arrest me if you had a problem with my presence.”
“Oh God.”
“The bouncer said it was okay for me to come inside, as long as I didn’t try to sneak any drinks or smokes, and so long as I don’t make any trouble. I will not try to sneak any drinks or smokes, okay? And I definitely won’t make any trouble.”
“How?”
Molly rolled her eyes. “I googled. It took about five seconds, Dad. Honestly. There are only so many psychic singers and dive bars on Capitol Hill. Your new friend is hot on Twitter.”
“Did I tell you… did I even give you enough information for you to…”
“Yes,” she told him firmly. A cop’s daughter, through and through. He was proud, even. “Yes, you did. Now be quiet, would you? The show’s about to start.” She turned her chair to face the stage, crossed her legs, and pulled out her phone like she fully intended to live-tweet this whole damn thing.
He didn’t know what to say, given that she was already inside a bar, and yes—the show was about to start. So he sighed, finished half his drink in a swallow, and settled in to watch.
18.
Leda Foley emerged from the bathroom with most of a Midori sour rinsed from her shirt. Ben had brought it to her—then spilled it when Niki had accidentally whacked him with her plastic boot. It had not been the world’s most auspicious start to a stage performance.
But Leda was wearing gray and black, and the green shadow was scarcely visible. It might be a little more apparent under the spotlight, or then again, it might not. Either way, the show must go on, even if she did smell vaguely of honeydew.
Tonight, Grady was somewhere in the audience. The fact of it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. What if he saw her perform and decided he’d been wrong all along? He might decide that she was a fake, a crook, or worse.
Or, he might decide that she was a paranormal genius—and opt to sign her up as a formal consultant for the Seattle Police Department, just like that.
Could he do that?
Leda had no idea. But consultants for the SPD got paid, didn’t they? Maybe she could drag this whole thing into a lucrative (or semi-lucrative?) side hustle. Maybe she’d just be happy to participate, and maybe even help solve Tod’s murder.
Joining the investigation like this, teaming up with a detective and using these skills to solve problems… it might be enough. It might be time to open that terrible door, pick herself up, and move on with her life in this new, weird direction. It beat sitting alone in a dark storage room, crying into a box of a dead man’s clothes. Even if it never happened—even if they never found who did it, and justice was never served at all—it could mark the end of mourning, or something like it.
Is this what she would replace it with? Crime fighting in her downtime?
Or was this too morbid, and too close, and still too soon? Leda wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure how to think about it, even though there were days that she thought of little else.
Well, it used to be months. She’d take whatever progress she could get.
She peeked out from behind the curtain and saw a bigger crowd than usual. Definitely the biggest so far, and yes, there was Grady. He was camped at a small two-seater bistro table beside the wall, stage left. He wasn’t alone. Some woman was sitting with him now. Did he know her? Did he offer her the empty seat? Leda couldn’t get a good look at her, as she was facing the other direction.