Apron-clad, Niall turns from the stove. “I think you’re going to enjoy it, Cynthia. You’ll find this vibrant wine exudes notes of ripe apple and a hint of lemon citrus. A crisp white, it has a modest fizz. And the wedge of lime I squeezed in serves to enhance the fruitiness, making it even more refreshing.” He places a towel over his arm and bows from his waist like a waiter.
Laughing at his antics, Cynthia asks, “What smells so heavenly?”
“That would be dinner,” Libby answers. “Niall’s made spicy cornmeal-crusted scallops with wild sweet fern butter, lobster creole-stuffed eggplant, and yellow water lily leaves stuffed with purple rice.”
“That sounds delicious,” Cynthia says.
“But first, we’re going to enjoy double tomato bruschetta,” Niall says, carrying a large platter and setting it on the table.
After an avid conversation comparing writing accomplishments and obstacles, they adjourn to The Ink Well for after-dinner drinks. Jason’s abstention from alcohol throughout dinner hasn’t gone unnoticed by anyone, least of all, Cynthia.
During the meal, Cynthia took the opportunity to “listen between the lines,” homing in on the energetic impressions she received. And though she can’t explain why she feels compelled to lead the conversation back to Mick’s manuscript and learn more, it seems imperative.
“For dessert this evening we’re having apricots, raspberries, and goat cheese with blackberry drizzle.” Niall’s announcement is greeted by oohs and aahs as he sets the dessert-laden tray on the center coffee table.
Looking at Mick, Cynthia asks, “If I understand correctly, the sniper who killed your partner, Sam, was never caught. Is that right?”
The pain in Mick’s dark green eyes overshadows his mouth, bracketed with sadness. “Yes, that’s correct.”
All eyes are on Cynthia. If anyone had bothered to look at Jason, they would see that an alert, extremely attentive demeanor has him sitting ramrod straight, at full attention.
“Did your department enlist the aid of a forensic intuitive to help with the case?” she asks.
His curiosity piqued, Jason leans forward and asks, “Hire a psychic?”
“Yes. I’ve been involved in many cases throughout the southwest including Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and most recently in Nevada.” She has everyone’s rapt attention.
Jason asks, “Under what circumstances does a police department decide to involve an intuitive consultant in an investigation?”
“It varies by state and department, but in the most recent case, I was brought on board two days into the search for a kidnapped child. The parents were out of their minds with fear and grasping for anything to find a trace of evidence.”
Jason’s more than intrigued. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He asks, “At any point did you feel that the child could be dead?”
“Yes. I’ve worked several kidnapping and homicide cases. After about forty-eight hours we’re typically looking for a body.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Mick says, “what is it, exactly, that you do?”
“I don’t mind at all. Normally, I use a photograph of the missing person or an item that belongs to them.”
“What happens then? What do you do with it?” Jason asks.
Choosing her words carefully, Cynthia answers. “I use what’s known as psychometry. I hold the photograph or item in my hands and tune into the personal energy signature of the individual. Much like a radio station, I fine tune my frequency to the frequency of what I’m holding and receive information. I can usually tell if they’re alive or dead, what they’re feeling emotionally if they’re alive, and what’s happening to them. I don’t have the means of solving the case, but I can give the police some guidance, a place to look, or an avenue they didn’t know existed.”
“Can you tell where the person’s at? Their geographic location? Is that something you can sense?” Mick asks.
“Not always, but many times. In the most recent case, I sensed that the child was still alive and saw him with men—one in particular. When I confirmed that I could describe him, they brought in a police sketch artist.”
White-knuckled, Mick’s hands are knit together tightly. “What happened next?”
“I described the impression that I received. The boy was abducted from the parking lot of a store. He was bound, gagged, and hidden under a camouflage tarp, like hunters use, in the back of a truck, then driven to a cabin. I could see what it looked like and described it and the surrounding area. Then I saw an impression of a ridge. It turned out later that the cabin was located on Ridge Road.
“The part that helped the most, however, was a large, distinctive belt buckle one of the abductor’s wore. The police artist’s rendering of my description confirmed it was a rodeo prize and they were able to narrow the search considerably.”
“What was the outcome?” Jason asks.
Cynthia looks into his ice-gray eyes. Her intuition is on high alert. The something that is wrong, the something that is menacing, is Jason. “Because he had sexually molested the child, the ringleader, the man with the belt buckle, received a life sentence. The other men are serving twenty years each.”
“Cynthia, I’m very impressed. What you’ve shared with us is incredible. I’m curious to know if you’ve ever worked on any cold cases?” Mick asks.
“Yes, I work on those periodically.”
“What’s your rate of success with those types of cases?” he asks, barely suppressing the hopeful excitement in his voice.
“I don’t know for sure, but I’d say just about half the time, about fifty percent.”
Hemingway enters the room and saunters over to Emma. After circling a few times, he settles down on the floor near her feet.
Jason leans back in his chair. His face is impassive. Fifty percent accuracy on a cold case is too close. Sweat trickles down his skin on the inside of his shirt. He remembers as a young teenager eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for his ears, between his mother, a social worker, and the school psychologist, after yet another “incident,” this time involving
