Deadly Visions (5 page)

The woman nodded.“Yes. And just so you know, you're freaking me out.”

The guests applauded as Joe stepped to the front of the crowd. Talman caught Joe's eye and smiled triumphantly.“There's no way you can explain that away, Detective.”

Joe shrugged.

Talman's eyes narrowed.”You think you can?”

“Maybe.”

“Be my guest.”

Joe turned toward the crowd.“I'm getting the initials T.R. A man born in mid-June, I believe. A man who loves his three grandchildren very much.”

An elderly man raised his hand and stepped forward.“That would be me. My name's Tracy Ray.”

“Nice to see you, sir. Three grandchildren, is that right?”

He nodded.“And another one on the way.”

“Congratulations. How's the Stingray driving?”

The man stared at Joe, stunned.

“It's a yellow Corvette Stingray, right?”

“Yes, but I didn't drive it today.”

“Of course not, mostly weekends. Did you restore it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell that you put a lot of yourself into it.”

Talman walked toward Joe.“What the hell are you doing?”

“Exactly what you asked me to do.”

Joe could see that Talman wanted to rip him apart, but the guests would obviously keep him on his best behavior.

“Apparently you know this man,” Talman said.

“No, we've never met. Have we, sir?”

“Nope.”

Joe glanced back at Monica. If anything, she seemed amused by the demonstration. She sipped her champagne.

“Then, how did you do it?” Talman asked.

Joe held up a brown billfold.“Simple. I lifted his wallet.”

The man frantically patted his pockets while the guests laughed.

Joe handed the billfold back to him.“I had only a few seconds to look it over, but I saw his driver's license, which gave me his name and birth date. There
was also a picture of him and a lady I assumed to be his wife with three young children, and two pictures of him posing proudly next to a yellow 1964 Corvette Stingray.”

A vein was standing out onTalman's forehead.”You think Monica Gaines stole this woman's wallet?”

“Of course not, but I think it's entirely possible that she saw it.” Joe turned toward the slender woman.”Ma'am, was your wallet on your table at any time since you boarded, or maybe during lunch?”

She looked away.”Uh, maybe. I'm not sure.”

“All it would take is a few seconds,”Joe said.”If she happened to come by your table, moved your wallet so that it fell open to show your driver's license and business card, she could have gotten most of the information she needed. Your name, the fact that you just turned forty, and that you work in a large building. If your business card has a high floor number, that would tell her.”

“What about the other things?” Talman asked.“How she felt about the communication within her company?”

“How many people who work in a large company don't sometimes feel that there's a communications problem? For psychics, that's a standard reading whenever it's determined that the subject works in a big corporation.”

The woman shook her head.“But what about my dog? There's nothing in my purse that would tell her that.”

“Not in your purse. Step forward, please.”

She moved toward Joe and he turned her around to face the crowd. He kneeled next to her and
pointed toward several short dark hairs on her brown slacks.“Look. And none of the hairs are higher than your shins. It's a small dog with short dark hairs. A Scottish terrier is the most popular dog fitting that description, so she may have guessed.” Joe stood up.“I'm not saying this is how she did it. I can't prove that. But I do think it's important for people to know that there are possible explanations other than psychic ability.”

The guests were silent. Talman still looked mad as hell. Carla and Carla stood at the rear of the crowd, lips pursed, and shifting uncomfortably. The only one who didn't look uncomfortable was Monica. She raised her champagne glass to Joe and downed the rest of her drink.

Glen Murphy adjusted his headphones and listened to the percussion track again. It was almost four in the morning, and he'd been at the mixing console since noon the day before. He was already four months late in delivering his new R&B album,
Night Riot,
to the label, and they were pressuring him to finish it by the end of the week. Whenever he thought it was done, there was another background vocal to be tweaked or guitar riff to be rerecorded.

He'd practically been living at the Peachtree Summit Studios, the facility where he'd produced all of his albums for the past nine years. His most recent work,
Street Meat,
had won him Grammy nominations in the R&B vocal and producing categories, and he knew that a lot of people were waiting to judge his follow-up.

Not until it was ready, dammit.

He yanked off the headphones and tossed them onto the console. The percussion track still didn't sound right, and he didn't know how to fix it. Shit.

Murphy stood and shuffled out of the sound booth. Things would be clearer after a few hours'sleep. Maybe. He hadn't slept well lately, with those whispering voices he thought he heard every night. Probably from all the speed he'd been popping.

He looked at the glass-paneled vending machine in the lobby, but all the good stuff was gone. He'd cleaned it out of Kit Kat bars, Hostess cupcakes, and Lay's Sour Cream& Onion potato chips.

“
Glen Murphy …
”

The voice again. It was coming from directly in front of him.

“
Glen Murphy …
”

He went still.

The voice again. The same whispering voice he'd been hearing for days. He backed away from the vending machine.“Who is it? Where are you?”

“
Come with us….
”

He glanced around, but he was alone in the studio lobby.

“
Come with us, Glen Murphy….
”The voice now came from behind him.

Gotta get the hell out of here.

Murphy ran for the door. Locked. He fumbled for his keys.

“
Glen Murphy …join us now.
”

He found the key, shoved it into the lock, and turned. He pushed the door open and ran into the studio's rear parking lot. The voices stopped.

Thank God. He ran through the narrow parking lot toward his Jaguar, parked alongside the rear of the studio. He scratched his chest. He'd developed a bizarre-looking rash there, and it was itching like crazy.

Keep going, man. Don't let the voices catch up.

Another sound. A low metallic roar at the parking lot entrance, at the top of a long slope that rose to the street.

Definitely time to lay off the pills.

Another clanging sound, then a soft rumble from the top of the slope. He glanced up. In the shadows of the parking lot, it appeared that a large wall had suddenly been erected at the entranceway.

It began to move toward him.

Jesus. The wall, or whatever the hell it was, almost spanned the width of the narrow lot. It moved faster, its groans and sharp, high-pitched squeaks echoing off the building.

Murphy leapt for the car door, fumbling for the key-chain remote. Where in hell was that unlock button? He pressed them all. The trunk popped open and the panic alarm sounded. The siren blared in his ears as he finally pulled open the door.

The roar behind him grew louder.

Shit.

Blinding light suddenly lit up the entire back of the building. He jumped for the driver's seat. This couldn't be happening. There's no way that he—

Murphy never finished his thought. The cold steel ground into his torso and abdomen as the car door slammed through him.

P
retty, huh?”Howe stood in the rear parking lot of Peachtree Summit Studios, revealing Glen Murphy's twisted, bloody body with the same casual-ness as if he were showing off a new lawn mower.

Joe grimaced at the sight. Murphy's eyes were open, staring upward. Joe wanted to close the corpse's eyes, but he knew better. It was seldom as easy as the palm-down glide-over in the movies. He'd once watched a rookie beat cop spend five horrible minutes trying to close a corpse's uncooperative left eye.

“Where's the symbol?”Joe asked.

Howe pointed to the victim's chest.”There's blood on it, but it's right here. A hazy circle with two intersecting lines. There's another fainter symbol intersecting it, which we saw on a couple of the other victims.”

Joe squinted at the mark on Murphy's dark skin. He looked back at Howe.”Okay, so what the hell hapened here?”

Howe pointed to a massive yellow forklift angled away from Murphy's pulverized Jaguar. “This forklift belongs at a construction site a couple doors over. Near as we can figure it, someone waited for him to come out, then steered it down.”

“Physical evidence?”

“Doesn't look promising. The forklift's been dusted for prints, and there are no footprints to be seen on the street. Whoever's doing this is good at covering his ass.”

Captain Henderson strode out of the studio's rear exit. “Bailey, what are you doing here?”

“I was told that Monica Gaines would be here.”

Howe motioned toward the street. “She's with Carla in the alley. She wants to come down here as soon as possible.”

Henderson nodded. “Only after the scene's broken down. And try to keep the journalists away while she's here, got it?”

Howe nodded.”Sure.”

Henderson turned toward Joe. “I heard about your performance onTalman's boat yesterday.”

“I thought you might have.”

“Your job is not to make Monica Gaines look like a fool, Bailey. You're here to watch her investigate these murders and point out any possibly deceptive behaviors as they relate to this investigation. Anything else she does is her business, not yours. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“This is not a time for the Atlanta PD to be pissing people off.”She glanced down at Murphy's body. “Jesus. Throw a blanket over him, will you?”

Howe nodded.”Yes, ma'am.”

Henderson stepped back into the studio.

Joe made his way up the sloping parking lot to the street. He spotted Carla and Monica standing on the sidewalk, sipping coffee from Dunkin'Donuts cups.

“Glad you could make it,”Carla called out to him.

Joe approached them. “And why didn't you see this coming, Ms. Gaines?”

“Please call me Monica. I generally can't see the future, but I did have terrible dreams last night. I dreamed that the beasts who killed Franklin knew that I sensed them, and it made them angry.”

Carla half smiled.”Angry enough to kill again?”

“It was probably just a dream.”Monica turned toward Joe. “Or do you have an explanation for that too?”

“I meant no offense to you yesterday.”

“Is that an apology?”

“No. Are you expecting one?”

“Of course not.”

Carla pointed to the parking lot entrance, where a uniformed officer took down the yellow crime scene tape. “Looks like they're breaking down the scene. Ready?”

Joe and Monica followed Carla to the lot and walked down to Murphy's body, which was now covered by a white plastic tarp. Monica tightly crossed her arms in front of her. She had the attention of everyone on the scene, including Howe, four uniformed cops, and the medical examiner.

“Ms. Gaines?”Howe said.

“Please, not now,”she said. “I need a moment.”She stood still, staring down at the pavement.

Everyone was silent as Monica took a few long,
deep breaths. She closed her eyes.”Nothing …nothing but the stars,”she whispered.

“What?”Joe asked.

“Nothing but the stars.”

Carla moved closer to her.”What does that mean?”

She didn't answer. She was motionless, head thrown back, facing the gray sky.”It mattered to him,”she finally said.”It mattered to this man.”

“What mattered?”Howe asked.

“Nothing but the stars.”She looked at them and shook her head.”Whatever it means.”

“Okay,”Howe said.”What about his death? Can you tell us anything?”

She stared at the plastic tarp. “Uncover him, please.”

Carla put her hand on Monica's arm. “I'm not sure you want to do that.”

“It would help me to see him,”Monica said. “Please.”

Howe bent over and yanked the tarp from Murphy's body. If Howe expected a startled reaction from Monica, he was probably disappointed, Joe thought. She stared at the bloody corpse with clinical detachment.

“Did he hear the voices?”Monica asked.

Howe shook his head.”Don't know yet.”

She placed her hands a few inches over Murphy's face. “There was fear. Intense fear.”She slowly drew back.”He
was
hearing the voices, but he couldn't understand them.”

Captain Henderson reemerged from the studio and watched her.”Did he know his killer?”she asked.

“I don't believe so, no. I get the sense that he
wasn't sure what was happening to him. Almost as if—”She took a sharp breath.”Oh God.”

“What?”Henderson asked.

She shuddered. “It's the same feeling as the other night.”

“How?”Joe asked.

“I don't think his killers were”—her voice dropped to a whisper—”flesh and blood.”

“So we're talking about evil spirits again?”Joe asked.