Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (5 page)

"When we had dinner after the meeting, he said Harley's been in the bar making rash statements about what needs to be done to stop the building project. Harley's operating from emotions, not logic. If he continues, he could hurt the group's credibility."

So Harley was shooting his mouth off at the bar, not harassing Abby. I loosened my death grip on the phone. "Can't you muzzle him?"

"Nice idea, but no. Harley is a bitter, unhappy man. Edna told me he had hoped coming back to farm his mother's place would solve his problems. He used to drive a semi, you know, and he hated it. But things haven't worked out like he thought they would. His wife left him five years ago, taking his sons with her. And now he thinks PP International will squeeze him out. I also sense he likes the attention he's getting. People are listening to him, especially when he spouts off about the hog confinement issue." She paused. "But enough of that—let's talk about you. Tell me about the convention. Are you having a good time?"

"It's okay—you know how it is. Some of the speakers are good, some aren't. Darci is enjoying herself. She met a product rep, thought he was cute, now she has a date with him tonight."

Abby chuckled. "Darci's good at making her own fun, isn't she? This friendship is good for you; you might learn something from her."

"Hey, I have fun."

"Yes, but not enough. You need to get out more."

"Sounds like you've been getting out. This is the second time in a week you've had dinner with Stumpy, excuse me, Arthur. Isn't it?"

Over the long distance I felt Abby weighing her words.

"Umm. Well, yes, it is. He's a good man. When he was young, he worked in the logging camps in Minnesota. He saw firsthand what man does to the environment if he's not careful. I have a lot of respect for him."

"That respect doesn't include sharing information of your talents, does it?"

"No, of course not. But if I did, I think he'd understand."

"Abby—"

"Oh, don't worry, I've kept my secrets for a long time, and I'm not planning on changing. But while we're talking about talent, how are you doing with the runes?"

Twisting the phone cord around my finger, I thought about it—how was I doing? I'd studied the journal, understood how to place the runes for a reading, but that was it. I hadn't tried to do an actual reading yet. Maybe I was afraid of what they would tell me.

"Ophelia, are you still there?" Abby's voice broke into my thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm thinking." I blew out a breath. "I really haven't done much. I feel their energy when I handle them, but I'm scared to do more."

"It's good to respect their power, but there's no need to fear them. They're only rocks."

"Yeah, rocks that give me nightmares."

"Nightmares?"

"Yup—the first night you gave them to me, I dreamed I chased Brian's killer, but I couldn't see his face. In the dream I got tangled in brambles and couldn't get loose. My struggling and yelling woke me up. Does it mean anything to you?"

"Well, it could mean you've begun to connect with the killer on some level."

Crap. That wasn't what I wanted to hear.

"I don't want to connect with that sick SOB," I said evenly. "I want to catch him."

"You
are
going to the police station?" Abby's voice rose with excitement.

I looked at my hand. The telephone cord was twisted so tight around my fingers that they were turning purple. Abby was right; I would talk to them about Brian's murder.

Chapter Six

A fake plant sat in the corner, a sad attempt at giving the room a "homey" touch. Its faded green leaves were coated with a thin layer of dust. The pale walls surrounding the plant were covered with bulletin boards announcing community activities, garage sales, and criminals to be apprehended.

The last one made me pause. If Henry Comacho would've had his way five years ago, my picture would've been up there with the rest of the thieves, rapists, and murderers. Memories of the pain, the fear, I'd felt the last time I was in this police station made me break out in a cold sweat. Memories that were tied to Detective Comacho and his endless questioning five years ago. He'd been like a bulldog gnawing on a bone and I was the bone.
Chew, chew, chew
. I would rather walk on glass in my bare feet than talk to him again. But, according to Abby, I had no choice. God, I hated it when she was right.

Taking a deep breath, I walked to the desk where a uniformed policeman sat.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Detective Comacho. Is he available?"

The man looked up from the newspaper he was reading. "No. Henry isn't a detective here any more. Is there someone else who can help you?"

My stomach actually quivered with relief. I wasn't going to have to face Comacho again. Yippee.

"I know this sounds odd, but a friend of mine was murdered here five years ago. I wanted to know if the case is still open and if you had any new leads."

"Murder cases never close, but the detective who handles cold cases is Perez." He pointed down a hallway to my right. "His office is the first door on the left."

Walking down the hall, the clicking of my heels on the worn tile echoed in my ears. What would I say to this man? Had I met him five years ago? The name didn't jog my memory, but a lot about that time period was a haze. Taking another deep breath, I knocked on the door.

"Come in," said a deep voice.

I turned the knob and opened the door.

A dark-haired man sat behind the desk, looking at me. Over his left shoulder, cluttered on the bookcase, I saw pictures of a woman and children. A chair faced the desk. In it was another dark-haired man. The man shifted his body around so I saw his face. Familiar brown eyes stared at me.

My fingers curled tight around the doorknob while my heart boomed in my chest. My knees bent of their own volition.

Dang! Comacho!

I felt those brown eyes taking in every aspect: my clothes, my hair, how I stood. I straightened and released my death grip on the doorknob.

Both men stood when I took a shaky step into the room. Comacho spoke first.

"It's been a while, Ophelia." He studied me again and then turned to Detective Perez. "Joe, this is Ophelia Jensen. She was a friend of Brian Mitchell's."

"Oh yeah, I remember." He extended his hand from where he stood behind the desk. "How do you do, Ms. Jensen? Have a seat."

After I shook hands with Perez, Comacho stepped aside and allowed me to sit in the chair. I felt him hovering behind me. Neither man spoke and, from behind his desk, Perez watched me.

I plunged right in. "I want to know if there's anything new with the investigation of Brian's murder?"

Perez looked over my head at Comacho.

Looking back at me again, he asked, "It's been five years, Ms. Jensen. Why the sudden curiosity?"

"Umm, well—" The words I wanted to say dried up in my mouth.

Comacho moved from behind me and perched on the edge of the desk. "Do you have any new information?" he asked, zeroing in on me.

"N-no," I stuttered.

Damn, I sound guilty of something. Get some spine, Jensen
, I thought. Squaring my shoulders and ignoring Comacho, I met Perez's stare.

"No, of course I don't have anything new. If I did, I would've told you by now."

Perez eyed me with curiosity. "Then why are you here?"

"I'm in town for a librarians' convention and I wanted to know if the murder is still being investigated," I said, twisting the strap of my purse around my fingers. Glancing at Comacho, I saw him watching my hands twist the strap. Dropping it, I clasped my hands in my lap. Comacho's mouth twitched at the corner.

"Look, I know it seems funny, after all this time, contacting you, but there's never been any closure for me after Brian's death. I want to see his killer caught. It won't bring Brian back, but it might provide some peace to his family and me to know you haven't given up."

Perez leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, and looked at Comacho. "The Iceman never gives up. He doesn't appreciate loose ends, do you, Enrique?"

Comacho gave Perez a cool glance. "No, I don't."

Confused, I looked at Comacho. "But the officer at the desk said you weren't assigned here any more?"

"I'm not; I'm with the Iowa Department of Crime Investigation."

"The DCI?"

"Yeah, I was in town, so I thought I'd drop by."

Right. After my experience with him five years ago, I knew every question he asked, every action he took, had a reason. But what was that reason? I didn't have time to worry about it now.

"You're still investigating?"

"Yes," answered Perez. "But unfortunately, we don't have any new leads. We know there've been other murders in the past five years that we believe were done by the Harvester. Yeah," Perez said noticing the shocked look on my face. "He has a name now, thanks to a clever reporter. The victims were all successful men who were homosexuals and all were murdered the same way. But the killings have been sporadic and over several states in the Midwest."

"And the DCI's involved now?"

"Yes, and the FBI." Comacho studied his hands. "You haven't been contacted by the killer, have you?"

"Who, me? How would he contact me?"

Perplexed, Comacho watched me. "The usual way: anonymous phone calls or letters."

I stared at the cracks in the floor. Sure, I could tell him the killer had contacted me in my dreams. And that I'm starting to have this weird mental connection with him. Oh, and by the way, may I use my runes to help you find him? What would the logical Detective Comacho do if I said that? He already thought I was nuts.

I shook the mental image away and said, "Why would he do that?"

"Well, thanks to Fletcher Beasley and his articles in the paper, your connection, your friendship, with Brian Mitchell was well known and sometimes serial killers think it's fun to taunt the friends and families of their victims. It extends their feelings of power and control," Perez explained.

"No, nothing like that has happened."

"But you'd tell us if it did?"

"Yes, I would." I stood to leave. "Thank you, Detective Perez. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, but I must go."

"I have to go too. I'll walk you to your car, Ophelia," Comacho said.

"That's okay. It's not necessary."

"No, I insist. Joe, great seeing you again. Tell Marcella hi and give her a kiss for me."

"Sure thing, Iceman. Take care,
hermano
," Perez said, doing a macho handshake thing with Comacho.

I hurried from the room, but Comacho caught up with me in the hallway. We walked down it in silence. I didn't have to look at him to be aware of his presence. It was like walking next to an iceberg. He knew I hadn't told the truth today and he knew I hadn't told the truth five years ago. I didn't need my psychic talent to know Comacho didn't have much use for liars and his. disapproval of me rolled off him in frigid gusts.

He held the door to the police station open for me and I stepped out into the bright sunshine. Right into Fletcher Beasley.

Wonderful, my second least favorite person in the world.

Beady little brown eyes in a sharp skinny face lit up in anticipation when he saw me. He was so excited that I saw the coffee cup he always carried tremble in his hand.

"Hey, if it isn't Ophelia Jensen. Long time no see. What's going on? Comacho finally arrest you?" Fletcher asked, his little ferret face gleaming.

Comacho stepped in between us. "None of your business, Beasley. What are you doing here, instead of chasing an ambulance, looking for some story to sensationalize?"

"Comacho, you wound me," Fletcher said, grasping his chest with his free hand.

"Nonsense. You have to have a heart before you can be wounded, Beasley."

Comacho took my arm and guided me around Beasley, down the steps. I felt his anger vibrating in his touch. He may be the Iceman outside, but he was burning inside.

Fletcher ran to keep up with Comacho's long strides.

"Hey, wait a second. I could ask you and Ms. Jensen here the same question: What are you doing at the police station?"

"Get lost, Beasley," Comacho said over his shoulder, never breaking his stride.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Fletcher stop and slick back his thinning hair. Evidently, he decided to take Comacho seriously. After taking a gulp of coffee, he walked back to the station.

"Okay, you can let go," I said, trying to pull my arm out of Comacho's grip. "He's gone now."

Comacho released me, but I still felt the heat where he had clasped my arm. I rubbed the spot.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to grab you so hard. It's Beasley; he's always annoyed me. The guy's a jerk."

What do you know? Comacho and I finally agreed on something.

"Well, I know why I don't like him. He dogged my every step five years ago, but why don't you?"

Comacho ran his hand through his hair. "When I was on the force here, many times I watched him intrude on a family's grief during a tragedy, all in the pursuit of a story. And he'd take that grief and parade it on the front page. Helped sell newspapers." He shook his head. "He's a parasite."

Wow, Comacho actually had a heart.

Taking a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, Comacho slipped them on. "Ophelia, you've always been a loose end in the Mitchell case. I don't like loose ends—"

"Any better than parasites."

"Less."

Guess I was wrong. He didn't have a heart.

Looking at him, I saw my distorted reflection in his sunglasses. Even at this distance, I noticed how pale I looked. And frightened.

"I know you're either hiding something or lying about something."