A Glimpse of Evil (2 page)

Dutch’s boss is a guy named Brice Harrison, a man I’d come to know and like, even though he and I had gotten off on the wrong foot when we’d first met.

More specifically, he thought I was a nut. I thought he was an ass.

We were both a little right.

Since then, I’d managed to win Brice and his superiors over by helping to solve a big multijurisdictional case involving some missing teenagers. After proving myself on that case, Brice had been so impressed that he’d specifically recruited me as a civilian profiler for the new branch in the Texas state capital.

I’d gratefully accepted, as I realized that Dutch really wanted the promotion that Harrison was offering him, and that my income as a professional psychic had been significantly dampened by the downward-spiraling economy in Michigan.

So, after the holidays, Dutch and I had packed up his house, scouted out a rental home in Austin, and were ready to move. And that’s when my test results came back.

See, for all positions within the bureau—even those considered “civilian”—you must pass a lengthy and difficult interview process along with one incredibly intense psychological profile. By asking you a series of questions, which I assume are largely devoted to determining if you’re a nutcase, the bureau can decide if they should hire you, or lock you up and throw away the key.

Don’t believe me?

Sample one of the actual questions from the test: “Was there ever a time when you wished your parents were dead?”

Ummmm . . . no?

Maybe?

Okay, yes, when I was about sixteen and on the heels of being unfairly grounded for something my sister did, I will admit that I
did
fantasize about it but only for a second. I . . . um . . . pinkie swear.

The actual test, however, didn’t allow for any elaboration or explanation; it was just “yes” or “no,” and from my perspective, that all added up to a whole lotta bad news for me.

So, I was very surprised when the results came in a week later and showed that I was actually quite sane . . .

. . . but angry.

Say
what,
now?!!!

According to some FBI behavioral “genius” at HQ, my psychological profile suggested that I was likely given to frequent and unpredictable outbursts—particularly those expressing a sense of rage and frustration. Based on that analysis, the bureau was requiring me to attend “anger management” classes prior to being offered the position with the Austin bureau.

This disclosure was followed by a rather comedic outburst of said rage and frustration, and for a long while, my response to the idea that I attend the AM class was to tersely spout off a list of the vast and varied ways the FBI could go stuff themselves . . . and, yes, in hindsight I
do
see the irony!

Whatever.

In the end, it was the only choice I had; otherwise, bureau policy dictated that I couldn’t be hired. After considerable study of my shrinking bank balance, my dwindling client list, and the sad face that Dutch displayed every time I looked like I might refuse to go to the classes, I gave in. Which is why our move was delayed two months from February first to the end of March right after I received my certificate. (The FBI will have to excuse me if I don’t rush to frame it and mount it on the wall for everyone to see.)

After meeting the terms, I was officially hired, and we were on our way. The trip itself had been long and uncomfortable—I’m not a fan of extended road trips—but I’d seen some beautiful scenery all the way from southern Michigan to Oklahoma. But right around the time we entered north Texas, things got . . . well . . . dull.

“Yo, Abs,” Dutch said as I stared with concern out the window of his SUV, which had my MINI Cooper hitched behind it. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“It’s so stark,” I said, pulling my eyes away from the window. “I mean, I had no idea Texas was so flat.”

Dutch smiled wisely. He’d been flying down to Austin every week since the end of January to help Brice set up the new office and interview candidates for the squad. “The topography changes just outside Austin. Don’t you worry. Central Texas is almost as gorgeous as you are.”

I blushed. Dutch was laying on the charm extra thick these days, mostly, I assumed, because he was so happy I’d agreed to the FBI terms for hiring me. “Yeah, yeah,” I said with a wave of my hand. We rode again in silence for a while and I stroked the top of Eggy’s head. Both of our pet dachshunds were in the cab and I had to admit they had been incredibly well behaved on the long journey.

“How’re they doing?” Dutch asked as I moved Eggy over into my lap and Tuttle nudged her way closer to my thigh.

“Really well. But I think we’re close to the edge here. At some point they’ve got to be as sick of riding in this car as we are.”

“There’ll be plenty of room for them to run around at the house,” Dutch assured me.

“You swear you loved it?” I asked. The bureau had purchased Dutch’s old house in Michigan, which allowed us to rent something temporary in Austin until we found our own home to buy.

“It’s perfect for the time being,” he assured me.

I sighed heavily and tried to think happy thoughts. I’d lived in Michigan almost my whole life, and no matter how many times Dutch tried to tell me that Austin was the shizzel, for me, seeing was believing.

“You nervous about tomorrow?” Dutch asked into another stretch of silence.

I glanced sideways at him. “That’s the seventh time you’ve asked me that, cowboy. I’m starting to think I should tell you something other than ‘no.’ ”

He laughed. “I’m just trying to let you know that it’s okay if you are. I mean, these guys can be a little rough at first.”

Dutch was referring to my new job with the bureau, which began the next morning at eight a.m. As far as I knew, my new job description entailed giving the Cold Case Squad, or CCS, my impressions on various cases, and teaching the other agents in the office how to open up their own intuition.

“Harrison has my back, though, right? I mean, he keeps telling me he won’t allow anyone to disrespect me, which is incredibly ironic coming from him of all people.” Harrison had been one of the most skeptical, hardheaded nuts my intuition had ever had to crack.

“Oh, he’ll have your back, all right. Candice would kill him if he didn’t.”

“I can’t wait to see her,” I said wistfully. My business partner and closest friend, Candice Fusco, was a private investigator by trade, and she had followed Harrison down to Texas two months ago. I knew from the few e-mails that I got from her that she was ridiculously head over heels for him, and the two were even talking about moving in together.

“They’ve invited us over for dinner,” Dutch added. “I heard that Candice laid down a big chunk of change last week for some swanky condo in downtown and she moved in a few days ago.”

“How is it you know more about Candice than I do?”

“Harrison keeps me in the loop,” Dutch said with a bounce to his eyebrows.

I smiled. “You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Little bit.”

I shook my head and stared out the window again, but Dutch’s cautionary words about my first day on the job were settling in and making me nervous. “Do you really think they’ll give me a hard time?” I asked him after a bit.

“Who?”

“The other agents on the squad.”

“Yes.”

My mouth fell open. “Gee, cowboy, thanks for cushioning it a little.”

Dutch reached out and squeezed my hand. “Sorry, doll, but you’re better off knowing what you’re about to walk into.”

“Do you think it’ll be as bad as the first time I met Harrison?”

Dutch considered that for a minute, which made me even more nervous, because the first time Harrison and I had met had been
baaaad
. “Maybe just a little less awkward than that,” Dutch said.

“Shit,” I said, and that won me a sideways glance from him. My anger management instructor had forbidden us to swear. “Zu,” I amended quickly. “Shih tzu!”

Dutch laughed and shook his head. “That’s a new one.”

Since I’d been conditioned the last two months not to swear because my instructor was convinced it led immediately to an anger impulse, I’d been coming up with some rather “colorful” alternatives. “I’m never going to be able to stop,” I admitted. Of all the alternate behaviors we’d learned in the class, the single greatest challenge for me was the no swearing. I’d yet to go a full day without letting at least one expletive fly.

“Anything’s an improvement,” Dutch muttered. And although I leveled my eyes at him, I knew he was right. My mouth could put most sailors to shame.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, then got back on topic. “So, what’s your advice for making my first introduction to these agents less awkward?”

“Don’t be yourself,” Dutch said, and it took me a minute to realize he was kidding.

“I’m
serious
!”

Dutch laughed heartily but then sobered a little when he noticed I wasn’t laughing. “I think it can’t hurt to be as professional and down-to-earth as possible. You don’t want to go in there and talk about your crew like they’re real or anything.”

That shocked me. “My crew” was the term I used for my spirit guides, and they were such a part of my intuitive process that I was aghast at his suggestion. “Why the hello-dolly not?”

That won me another smile. “Because the minute you start talking about the voices in your head is the moment these guys will earmark you for a nut and discount everything you tell them after that. Then they’ll discount both me and Harrison because we believe in you, and pretty soon we’ll have another political mess on our hands.”

Now I understood why Dutch had continued to pester me about whether I was nervous and what I planned to say to the agents when I met with them. “So what should I talk about?”

“Well,” Dutch said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I think you should stick to basics. Dumb it down as much as possible and maybe give them a demonstration. But don’t read them. Read a case.”

“Why can’t I read them?” I asked. That was my forte after all.

“Because you’ll intimidate them.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Come on,” I scoffed.

But Dutch wasn’t smiling. “You don’t think that going in there and publicly revealing all their secrets will turn them immediately against you?”

My eyebrows shot up. I hadn’t considered that. “Okay,” I conceded. “I see your point. So, I tune in on a case, then what? Have them go out and solve it?”

Dutch shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “What you should do is tune in on a case that has already been solved. Something where we’ve already nabbed the bad guys, but something that took a while to solve, which will be totally relevant because that’s this group’s specialty after all.”

I sat with that for a bit and realized he was right. “Okay,” I said. “I get it. So I’ll go in there tomorrow and do my thing, but not overdo my thing, and impress the heck out of these guys and we’ll all be singing ‘Kum Ba Yah’ around the campfire by dinnertime.”

Dutch grinned. “That’s the spirit,” he said, adding, “And up ahead is the city limits. We’ll be at our new house in about twenty minutes.”

I looked ahead, and saw that Dutch had been absolutely right before when he talked about the change in topography. As I-35 coasted into North Austin, the road began to undulate over more hilly terrain. I tried to take in as much of my new home as possible.

Dutch took an exit, and not long afterward, my breath caught; as far as my eye could see, there were great sandstone cliffs, the color of champagne with amber and brown undertones, sometimes jutting up alongside us, other times dropping away and giving us breathtaking views. Interspersed in the cliffs were willowy trees with pink, purple, fuchsia, and white blooms, lush green grass and bluebonnets covering the highway median as far as the eye could see. Dutch glanced over at me as we cruised closer and closer to our destination and asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s so beautiful,” I said softly. And then I turned to him and smiled. “I think we’re home, cowboy.”

 

Later that evening after we’d supervised the movers unloading our things into the new house (and Dutch was right: the rental was large and spacious with a lovely fenced-in backyard for the pups), we cruised into the city, heading to Candice’s, which was right in the heart of bustling downtown.

After pulling into the underground parking for a huge modern-looking building, we took the elevator up to the thirty-eighth floor and stepped out into a narrow hallway lit by artsy sconces and painted an earthy brown. We walked only a few steps when Dutch stopped in front of number A12 and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately. “You made it!” Candice exclaimed, and threw herself at me, crushing me in a giant bear hug.

“Hey, Candice!” I squeaked.

Candice let go but held my arms as she eyed me with interest. “You look amazing!”

I smiled. It was Candice who looked amazing. Love had done wonders for her complexion, and there was a little extra glint in her eye and an extra wattage to her smile. “Thanks, honey. You look pretty good yourself. This place agrees with you.”

Candice’s smile broadened even more, and she gave Dutch a big hug too before grabbing my hand and pulling me inside. “It does, sugar,” she said. “And just look at the view!”

We entered Candice’s condo and I will admit, the view was pretty spectacular. Only, I’m not talking about what was just beyond her window; I’m talking about Special Agent in Charge Brice Harrison, who was leaning relaxed and gorgeous against the bar.

Brice was dressed to kill; he wore black dress slacks and a cashmere V-neck sweater that hugged his trim, fit body like a second skin. His face had always been ruggedly handsome, but the last time I’d seen him, that frown that he seemed to never go without had vanished, and now he wore something closer to a smirk.