“We’re not chitchatting, sir. Miss Kennedy is here to help with the Duncan-Kaufman investigation. She’s the doctor I told you about.”
Detective Rapier eyed me. “You sure you want to help?”
“I am.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you what I’ve told every cop wannabe. You’ve got two choices. You work pro-bono as you’ve been doing. You’ll be considered an informant and nothing more. You get no pay, and we have the option of denying your help at any time. There are no papers to sign, which means you’ll have no legal protection at all. If something happens that you don’t like, you deal with it. If someone does something you don’t like, deal with it. Chances are, you’ll end up behind bars anyway, because most people who do what you do are usually trying to hide something and hope to lead us in the wrong direction. It doesn’t work—it never has—and it just makes you look guiltier.
“Second option—you quit what you’re doing and go back to your life. Personally, I would take the second option.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. He obviously didn’t want me on the case, but I knew they’d never find the killer without my help.
“Option two would be a huge mistake,” I answered.
His eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“Because the person you’re looking for isn’t who you think, and I have inside information on this guy.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
He crossed his arms. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because,” Brent answered for me, “both of the victims are connected to her clients. If anyone knows who to look for or how to correctly profile this guy, it’s her. She’s spent her career studying misfits and recluses. She knows these people inside out. It would be a blunder on our part if we didn’t include her, and it could result in letting this guy walk. The PD has enough bad press as it is.”
“Bad press? Son, what do you think’s gonna happen when they find out we’re working with a mother-lovin’ psychic!”
“I’m not a psychic,” I put in.
“Close enough,” the detective said. “I’ve seen your ads in the paper—fairy world and repressed memories, a bunch of depression nonsense.”
“You’ve seen my ads?” This was wonderful news—I’d bought the cheapest line space possible, and he’d seen it! I needed to celebrate. Right after I got him off my back.
“Look,” he said, “the truth is, we’re going through a rough patch. Ever since Possess hit the streets, the city’s been in an uproar. I’ve got every officer on the force getting called in at unholy hours because gang fights are breaking out all over the city. So far, we’ve tried to keep quiet about it. When the press gets involved, they do more damage than they understand. Announce to the world that there’s a new drug out there, and everyone starts buying. If I’ve got a psychic working my cases, what do you think the media circus will do then?”
“I am not a psychic,” I repeated for the second time.
“Detective Rapier,” Brent said, “as I’ve explained before, the sooner we find this guy, the quicker the media will lay off us. If we catch him quickly enough, they won’t have time to find out who was involved in the capture before they race off to the next story.”
Detective Rapier worked his jaw back and forth. “You think she can find him that fast?”
“I’m confident she can.”
I wasn’t. Not at all. But I kept my mouth shut.
A knock came at the door, and a young woman stuck her head inside. “They’re ready,” she said.
The detective nodded and headed for the door. “Sanchez,” he called over his shoulder, “get this case tied up soon, and I let her stay. You’ve got one week, or she’s off. Now get out of my office.”
We stood and followed him out of the room.
“So I can work the case?” I whispered to Brent.
“Looks that way.”
We exited the police station, and I felt relieved as I climbed into Brent’s car. The sun had warmed the interior—such a contrast to the chill outside. Brent sat in the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, but before shifting gears, he peered at the station with a brooding look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He shook his head. “All this talk about the new drug. Jordan was carrying Possess, and we know that Mr. Duncan had it in his system. I read the tox report for Mr. Kaufman right before I met up with you, and he had it in his system as well.”
“But what’s the connection?” I asked. “Assuming they both got it from Jordan, where did he get it from? And how did it end up on Houston’s streets? And who else is selling it?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better find out,” Brent said as he shifted gears and pulled out of the parking space.
We made it back to the freeway as the sun dipped toward the west. My mind was so wrapped up in my thoughts that when Brent mentioned dinner, I gave a brief acknowledgment and went back to pondering.
Why couldn’t I stop thinking of King Skullsplitter? He’d beaten his sister, for goodness’ sake—at least, that’s what I’d been led to believe. But somehow, I couldn’t accept it as truth. Kull may have been a brutal fighter on the outside, but I’d known him as someone else—someone who would have sacrificed his own life before harming his family.
Something didn’t add up. Either Kull truly was a different person now, or I’d been misled.
The car stopped, and I came out of my thoughts to find we’d stopped at a barbecue place. Aunt Mae’s Pork Butt was tacked to the building’s storefront.
“Barbecue? Brent, I’m in my white shirt,” I said.
“Humor me on this one. Trust me, you’ve never tasted barbecue like this before.”
I grumbled as I exited the car and followed him through the
