Rock Star Down (The Psychic Registry)

About
Rock Star Down

What
happens when a pop-music princess turned reality-TV starlet is the
prime
suspect
in her husband's murder? They call in Nathan Miller, an enigmatic
ex-cop gone private detective. Why
Miller
? Because he's a
psychic
.
And because he's
the
best
.

Join
Laurel Comfort, a beautiful young investigator with the City Attorney's office
as she teams-up with Miller to catch the killer of a rock star. No secret is
safe. And no heart is immune. He'll get inside of your head… And you'll
love
every moment.

Laurel felt a bit like a kid. She was riding
in the back seat of the big city car enjoying the feel of the plush leather
seats. A quiet driver named Paul was at the helm. He looked like a retired cop.
Outside there was traffic. But what was a city, if not traffic? Any other day,
she rode the metro…

Seated beside her was
the
boss
, the City Attorney, named Fletcher. He was fortyish, but fit, and had
the charm and looks of a successful politician. Many assumed that he would run
for Mayor once Pendleton retired. Others scoffed at the notion that Fletcher
would
settle
for the Mayor's office and would instead run for State
Attorney. In short, he was a friend worth having and an intimidating prospect
for a boss. And he was
talking
to Laurel. However, she was nervous and
despite her efforts, her mind had wandered.

"Laurel?" he
asked.

"Yes, Mister
Fletcher?" she replied.

"You check out on
me?"

"I'm just trying
to digest the assignment, Sir. I only received the news this morning. It's a
bit
unexpected
," she said with a wave of her hand.

"
Nonsense
.
Jim Bozeman says that you've been angling for an investigative job since you landed
in the research pool. Now you're getting your wish. We're throwing you in the
deep waters, Laurel."

"That's very
flattering – and entirely accurate – but why
this
case?"

This case
: Chart-topping pop music starlet marries award
winning songwriter/producer husband. That was the first season finale of their
hit reality-TV show. Then, just four months after the second season's curtain, the
husband was dead and the diva was suspected of murder. It was a three-ring tabloid
circus and like all the women in the office, Laurel followed it religiously.

Fletcher answered, "We
need to explore all avenues in a case like this. With the heavy media attention
we can't afford any foul-ups. The cops will throw their heavy hitters at this.
And Bozeman's people will conduct follow-up. But sometimes we engage
additional
resources
. However, I handle sensitive work that must remain compartmentalized.
Persons like you are enlisted to ensure the security of our office when dealing
with outside vendors."

"Outsiders
vendors like the psychic," she said.

"
Especially
the psychic," he smiled.

Laurel knew the
stories, although she didn't precisely know the facts from fiction. She knew
that the City Attorney always used an intermediary, usually a staff nobody and
a young woman. Working with the psychic they didn't last long. Maybe a case or
two, then they were gone. There was much speculation. But nobody
knew
why.

"What do you know
about him?" she asked.

"Used to be a
cop. Being a registered psychic they put him in Internal Affairs.
He didn't
like it.
Left the force and hung his own shingle. He does mostly corporate
stuff: security and insurance work. Some
pro bono
jobs, too – missing persons,
cold cases – you know? His firm does major business but he's an interrogator at
heart and a real truth seeker."

"He has a
reputation
,"
she replied.

"He's a single
guy, with money. And a psychic. They all get reputations, at least those that
register. But you mean his rep with the ladies and you're wondering if that's
why I picked you. Because you're young and cute and single?"

"
All true
.
But women from the office… They work with him and soon after they're gone."

Fletcher gave an
envious laugh.

"He steals some
of our most promising talent," he said.

"They go to
work
for him?"

Fletcher nodded, "Or
he refers them to clients."

Laurel was intrigued.

Fletcher caught her
smiling. "But don't let the rumors fool you. Not everyone who works with
him leaves City Hall. Many of us are happy plying our trade for the public good,
though the material rewards may not impress the uptown crowd."

Paul stifled a laugh
from the driver seat.

Fletcher smiled, "Come
on, Paul. We need to drop off Laurel. T-time's at eleven and you know how the
Judge gets when we're late."

"He bringing that
clerk, Shelby?" Paul asked.

"Yes, I think we'll
make a little money today. But go easy on him. The Judge has plans to run that
clerk
for Thomson's seat in Superior Court."

Golf
, she supposed. Laurel wasn't good at the game. But
she had other talents.

"So how good is
he?" she asked Fletcher.

"The Judge? About
a thirty handicap," Fletcher mused.

"On a good day!"
Paul added from the driver seat.

"I meant the
psychic."

"I don't think he
golfs," Fletcher replied. "But as far as the job goes, some folks
would say he's
too
good." He dipped his voice so Paul could no
longer hear, "He'll get inside your head and you'll worry that he'll learn
all your secrets. And before you know it, he will. The man has few friends. He
gets lonely and goes through a slew of women. But he'll get the job done."

The car stopped and
Paul announced, "We're here."

"Laurel, whatever
you do, don't fall in love with him," Fletcher added.

"What?" she
stammered.

"Good luck. And
keep me posted," he said.

Then Paul opened her
door and she seemed whisked by some unseen force onto the sidewalk. And the big
city car was gone, taking Fletcher with it. She surveyed her destination: An
impressive building loomed above her, old enough to possess character and large
enough to be worth something. On Fifth Street at Central Avenue, with a view of
the park, she noted.

Once inside the lobby
she registered with security and was surprised to learn that the psychic
occupied
the top three floors
. Of course, he didn't occupy them
personally, his company did, The Miller Davis Group.

Nathan Miller wasn't
the only psychic in town – in fact, he employed several others – but he was the
most well-known. Yet personally, he was a mysterious figure who shied from the
public eye and kept his life as private as possible given his professional notoriety.
So Laurel knew very little of the man save what she'd heard around the office
and what insights Fletcher had shared. Brendt Davis was Miller's business partner.
Davis wasn't registered as a psychic but he was a seasoned investigator with an
established corporate network.

While waiting for the
elevator Laurel used a compact to check her makeup – all was intact and minimal
in appearance as was her fashion – hopefully highlighting her best to good
effect. She touched-up her lip gloss and smiled. Nice mouth, she thought. The
elevator opened and the chime signaled, but she did not enter. Not yet.

She glanced at her
watch.
Good, a little time still.

Everyone hired to the
City Attorney's office went to the same weekend seminar. Laurel suspected the
weekend was as much about screening new employees as it was about training them
how to guard against covert psychic readings. She also wondered how much the
trainers simply made up and what was grounded in fact. Nonetheless, the weekend
felt informative and best of all, it took place at a plush spa built around
natural hot springs.

She recalled a mnemonic
tool from the training seminar:
CALM
.

Clear you mind and
breathe.

Alert yourself to
those around you.

Listen, don't
think.

Monitor what they
say and do.

She didn't place much
stock in the CALM technique but she used it anyway. Another tip she recalled
was to create an overpowering mental image not anchored in any specific memory,
time, or place. She imagined a spiral-sliced ham, hot and glistening. Laurel
seldom ate ham and it held no special place in her memory that she could ever
deduce. She was taught to think of something unassociated with any personal
thoughts or feelings, something outside of memory that no psychic could use as
a foothold to access private thoughts. She chose ham.

If her mind wandered,
if she felt threatened or exposed, or lost to herself, she would think of that
spiral ham.

Keep calm
, she thought.
It's just a simple case.
And
he's just another man.

High above, in his office, Nathan Miller
watched the video stream from the lobby. He was observing her, reading her
thoughts, and smiling at the image of the spiral ham that filled his mind's
eye. He let the image fade and checked his calendar:
10:30 - Laurel Comfort
(re: Fletcher)

Dave Fletcher.
Nathan would be doing him favors for the rest of his
career. He thought leaving the police force would get him out from under
Fletcher, but the result was a stalemate. They each knew too much about the
other. Fletcher would never let go and Nathan wouldn't cross him. The truth was
that the arrangement worked and benefitted them both. But they had been friends
and Nathan felt betrayed. Though it was done now. They each prospered, their
friendship severed, though not their dealings.

Still, that Fletcher
knew his type. Why did he send them? Was it meant in goodwill? Or was he
taunting Nathan, as if to say,
I know your secret?
Or was he merely
facilitating Nathan's predilections for the sake of the case?

Perhaps he wouldn't
give in. He could deny Fletcher the satisfaction, whatever that might be. After
all, Nathan had plenty of options among women who were amenable to his desires
and nearer at hand. People he could trust even, at least more so than some
stranger from the City Attorney's office.

Just as cautious
people sometimes took steps to mitigate their exposure to psychics, Nathan employed
several techniques that he used to mitigate the effects suffered from reading
others. He kept thorough routines to maintain not only his efficacy, but his
personality and equanimity as well. And if he faltered, his assistant Cindy
kept him on track. For if he stumbled, if he pushed his efforts too far… He
wouldn't let that happen again. And neither would Cindy, nor Brendt.

So he meditated to
clear his mind. He noticed some lingering foreign memories that he'd yet to
purge, but nothing disturbing. He thought of playing football in high school – making
all-state middle linebacker – a memory he knew as his own, a mental touchstone he
used to reaffirm his identity. He forgot about the spiral ham and where it came
from. He looked at his hands, rough from weightlifting and sparing in the gym
and knew they were indeed his.

He drew a mirror from
his desk drawer and focused upon his reflection.

"My name is
Nathan Miller. My father is Douglas Miller. My mother is Anne Prince Miller. I'm
thirty-two years old. I'm a psychic investigator. And I live alone," he
said to himself.

"Don't let Doyle
hear you say that," his assistant Cindy said from the doorway.

"And I live alone
with my cat, Doyle," Nathan concluded.

"Your appointment
is outside," she said.

"Send her in."

"Let me know if
you need anything, darling," she added with a wink and a smile.

Cindy was one of
the good ones.
She got it. At least
as much as anyone else could.

Laurel arrived outside of Miller's
office where his assistant, Cindy, greeted her. Cindy slipped into Nathan's
office, then reappeared to direct Laurel inside. Cindy moved like a runway
model, yet her accent was more provincial than urban. Laurel guessed that she
was just shy of thirty, but Cindy's looks were yet striking enough that Laurel
found them intimidating.

Miller's office was earthy,
warm and sparsely decorated, though it was a large and comfortable space. The
man himself was tall, broad, and clearly muscled beneath his suit. He rose at
her arrival, but did not offer his hand. As she drew near him, she took note of
his features; his hair was dark, cropped in close waves and his face was clean
shorn. His complexion was warm from the sun and a bit weathered as if he'd just
returned from some far flung adventure. He appeared both handsome and tough and
he studied her with eyes that were deep blue pools cast in shadow. His eyes
interested her the most, but she could not hold his gaze for long.

Laurel took a seat in
front of his cherry desk and Miller returned to his chair.

"I don't shake
hands," he said.

"I understand,"
she replied, though she did not.

"I used to, but
so many people balk, like you have the flu or something. They don't know what
to do, so now I just skip it," Miller said.

"And instead you
give this little speech which isn't awkward at all," Laurel blurted. "I'm
sorry," she blushed.