Urban Shaman

deserved.

“I’ve known geniuses who couldn’t be trusted to keep their heads from the clouds long enough to cross a street, Walker. Are you gonna turn into one of those?”

“Why, Morrison.” I grinned after all. “Are you saying you think I’m a genius?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He let go of my shoulder and crossed the street. I followed, trying not to give in to the urge to do a little jig. Even if I did get killed, I’d gotten the better of Morrison three or four times inside of a day. It seemed like a pretty good legacy, just then.

The Missing O was incredibly busy, the whole neighborhood stopping by for their morning cuppa joe. The garage crew was there, so I made Morrison stand in line while I said hello and collected hugs. They departed en masse when Morrison returned with not only an apple fritter, but a hot chocolate for me, too. “Why are you being nice to me?” I asked suspiciously. I took a bite of the fritter, though. It seemed unlikely that he’d gotten the barrista to poison it.

“I didn’t want to deal with the paperwork I’d have had to fill out if you’d walked into traffic.” He sat down. “Sit.”

I sat. He’d just bought me breakfast, after all. “Glad to know you’re only being self-serving. For a second there I thought you might be concerned. What do you want, Morrison?”

“People walking out into traffic does concern me. What do you want?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Love, justice and world peace. But I’ll settle for solving a murder.”

“You’re sus—”

“Suspended. Yes. We’ve been over that. What’s your point?”

“I could fire you for insubordination.”

“Fine. Fire me. I’ll go get Henrietta Potter to hire me as a private investigator.” That wasn’t a bad idea, now that I thought of it.

Morrison set his coffee cup down and held up a thick finger. “One,” he said, “you don’t have a P.I. license. Two.” He held up another finger. “You don’t know much about investigating anyway. Three, this is personal for you. Personal gets in the way of impartiality. And four, you irritate me.”

I held up four of my own fingers, then folded them down and closed my thumb over them, jabbing at my own jaw. “And five, on general principles?” I asked. Morrison picked up his coffee again, almost smiling.

“Don’t tempt me. What were you doing at the station?”

“Why do I bug you so much?” This was probably not the time to get into it, but I was suddenly incredibly curious. Morrison arched his eyebrows. “No, really,” I said. “I mean, I know we got off to a bad start, although I still can’t believe you didn’t know a Mustang from a Corvette—”

“I was never into cars.”

“Obviously. What were you in to?”

Morrison stared at me over the edge of his coffee cup, then put it back down. “Being a cop.”

“What, when you were like nine? Fifteen? You wanted to be a cop, not to drive fast cars and pick up girls?” I took an incredulous bite of the apple fritter.

“Yeah. I never wanted to be anything but a cop. And that, Walker, is why you irritate me.” Morrison looked like he was at war with his own body language, trying to force himself to relax back into his seat while the intense low pitch of his voice drove him to lean forward, speaking to me sharply.

“You fell into a job I spent my whole life working for. You irritate me because I think being a police officer is a calling and a solemn occupation and you’re carrying a badge without it meaning a damned thing to you. You hang out with my officers in your off time, being just that damned cool, an attractive woman who talks cars and drinks beer and arm wrestles. None of them give a damn that you were in the top third of your class at the academy and that you’re wasting your skills in Motor Pool playing with engines. But it bugs the hell out of me. That is why you irritate me.”

I gawped at him. Morrison exhaled loudly and looked away. “What were you doing at the station?”

Thank God he’d said something else. I might’ve gawked at him the rest of the day, unable to speak. Attractive? Morrison thought I was attractive? Morrison knew where I’d graduated in my class? Christ, I usually played that down. He had to have looked it up.

Morrison thought I wasn’t, for God’s sake, living up to my potential?

I swallowed the impulse to apologize for disappointing him. “How do you know I was at the station?” It was a stupid question, but it was marginally better than apologizing.

Morrison just looked at me. I shrugged, took a sip of my hot chocolate, and nearly choked. It was mint- flavored and topped with whipped cream, the way I like it. It didn’t go at all well with apple fritters, but to the best of my recollection, I’d never once ordered hot chocolate with mint while Morrison was around. I stared at the cup, then stared at Morrison, while he looked almost perfectly bland. I bit down on rabid curiosity and refused to ask, taking another sip of chocolate instead, just like he hadn’t completely outmaneuvered me. Twice.

“I was seeing if anyone had filed a missing persons report,” I said when I put the cup down. I couldn’t think of anything to tell him but the truth. Besides, Jackson had told me I wasn’t a very good liar. If a dead man could see through my lies, there was no way I could fool Morrison. “I don’t think anything’s going to come of it, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Who’s missing?”

“A kid. A girl. Maybe. I mean.” I closed my eyes. Here I went again. “She might be missing, if she’s… real.”

When I opened my eyes Morrison was looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “You think someone who might not be real is missing,” he said in disbelief. I cringed.

“I know she’s real. I don’t know if she’s got a day-to-day ordinary life to be missing from.” One like I’d had until the beginning of the week. I ran my fingers over the scar on my cheek, then rubbed the heel of my hand against my breastbone. I wondered if the nervous hollow feeling there would ever go away. Morrison watched me.

“That diner had security cameras, did you know that?”

I looked up and shook my head, suddenly grateful for the hot chocolate. I took a sip before getting up the courage to ask, “And?” I had the hideous feeling the tapes had all been wiped blank, or had recorded static. It would just figure.

“I watched the tape this morning. Right from you and your friends walking in to you coming back from the dead. I didn’t believe you until then.”

“You believe me now?” My voice sounded very small and hopeful to my own ears.

Morrison took another sip of his coffee. “You should have a hole in you.”

“You want I should flash you and show you that I don’t?”

To my surprise, Morrison grinned. “Maybe another time.” I gaped again. I didn’t know Morrison knew how to flirt. Particularly with me. “I didn’t believe your friend Mrs. Potter, either.”

“Despite being faced with direct evidence? You’re a contrary bastard, Morrison.”

“Indirect evidence. I didn’t see it happen, and the hospital security tapes show you flopping over her and then getting up. And then Mrs. Potter getting up a few minutes later.”

“C’mon, Morrison, how direct do you want?” I was arguing for something I considered impossible three days earlier. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

“It’s piling up in your favor.” Morrison took another sip of coffee, then put the cup down. “Which is why I’m considering the possibility that you might be of some use after all.”

That, somehow, didn’t sound like something I really wanted to hear. A cold little ball of dread formed in my stomach and started sending tendrils out through my guts. “What happened?”

Morrison took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Henrietta Potter was murdered this morning.”

CHAPTER 20

Black fog rolled into my vision, narrowing it down until all I could see was Morrison, and even he looked