Elites E-Book

Patrick Hodges

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Bax’s psychic abilities have turned his life upside-down. However, he has brought them under control, allowing him to settle into a routine – he has a job he loves, and a girlfriend he loves even more.

He uses his skills to help the Phoenix P.D. solve their most difficult cases, but unbeknownst to him, something lurks in the shadows. His efforts have attracted the attention of a ruthless uber-criminal, putting him and everyone he cares about in danger.

As the calendar approaches Christmas, Bax is forced to confront a shocking revelation about his parents. A case involving a dead body and a mysterious coin will light the fuse to an explosive that may shatter everything he holds dear.

Leseprobe

Elites

The Bax Mysteries Book 3

Patrick Hodges

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Interlude

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Check out Patrick’s other books!

Copyright (C) 2022 Patrick Hodges

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For

My family, My friends,

and everyone else who inspires me

ChapterOne

Wednesday, December 22

I let out a series of slow, measured breaths as the world comes back into focus. In through the nose, out through the mouth, Gina’s voice says inside my brain.

Satisfied, I lean back in the interrogation room’s uncomfortable metal chair and crack my eyelids open. My gaze falls upon the soiled kid’s baseball cap clutched in my fingers. With a sigh, I toss it onto the table.

“Bax?” a familiar voice asks. “Did you get something?”

I turn toward the door, where Natalie surveys me with a raised eyebrow. Also in the room are Captain Callahan and two detectives I barely know. All three men are looking on with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely suppressed impatience. “Yeah. Some dude in a late-model Chevy truck with a short, patchy beard pulled up, jumped out, and grabbed the boy right off his bike. Poor kid definitely knew the guy. Called him ‘Uncle Matt.’”

“Uncle Matt?” Detective Szymanski, a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a dark blue suit jacket that desperately needs replacing, skims through the folder he brought with him, pulls out a photograph, and shows it to me. “Is this the guy?”

I squint at the photo. It’s definitely the man I just saw in my flash. “That’s him. Without a doubt.”

“Son of a bitch.” He hisses through his teeth as he shows the pic to the captain. “Matthew Gorman, Mason’s uncle on his mother’s side. Lying bastard swore up and down he didn’t know where his nephew was.”

“Didn’t his work buddies alibi him for the day of the kidnapping?” the captain asks.

“Yeah.” Szymanski shoves the photo back in the folder. “Request permission to go crack that alibi like a ripe walnut.”

“Granted.”

The veteran detective gives me a nod that I interpret as gratitude, then leaves.

Using a folded paper towel, I place the baseball cap back in its evidence bag. Natalie steps forward, scoops it up, and gives me a hearty thump on the back. “Nice job,” she says.

“Thanks.” I reach for the water bottle she placed on the table twenty minutes ago, twist the cap off, and take a triumphant swig.

It’s funny—after that mess with Chrissy Marsh ended almost two weeks ago, I thought my life would end up ten times more chaotic than it already was. I fully anticipated Tim and Elyse, the people behind Chrissy’s kidnapping, to out me as a psychic for the part I’d played in their arrest. Every day since then, whenever I’ve stepped out of my townhome, I’ve expected to be confronted by a ravening pack of reporters bombarding me with questions while plastering my face over every TV, computer, and cell phone screen in the universe.

But it hasn’t happened. In fact, my life’s been quiet. Peaceful.

Normal.

And that scares the shit out of me. How messed up is that?

I distinctly remember telling Natalie that I was taking a break from psychic investigation while I directed my energies toward my job as a Hill O’ Beans barista, being Trina’s quasi-big-brother-slash-role-model, and my burgeoning romantic relationship with Piper. It wasn’t my intention to get back into the investigative game so soon. But, as has become the norm in my bizarro life, fate had other plans.

The day before Natalie arranged to bring me to the precinct to fill out some paperwork so I could get paid for my stint as an unofficial “consultant” for the Phoenix Police Department, an eight-year-old boy named Mason Crenshaw was abducted on his way home from his piano teacher’s house. His mother’s desperate, repeated pleas for his safe return tore my heart out, so I offered my services again. Mason’s baseball cap, thankfully, offered up the images I needed to help the cops nail the jagoff who took him—who just happens to be Mrs. Crenshaw’s asshole brother. What a world.

“So,” I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice, “any other cases I can help with?”

“Easy there, Kreskin,” the captain says, his Fu Manchu mustache bristling. “The department appreciates your input, but I can’t just bring you down to the evidence locker and say, ‘Have at it.’ If you’re serious about helping, we’ll have to come up with a set of rules and structure that’ll minimize any potential issues.”

I furrow my brow. “Is that really necessary? It’s not like my ‘input’ is part of any official record, is it?”

Natalie takes the seat opposite me. “No, but as I’m sure you know, psychics exist in a very gray area as far as the law is concerned. Any leads we develop, any evidence we uncover as a result of your flashes, is inadmissible based purely on the fact that they were psychically obtained. Therefore, the burden falls upon us to show that we could have connected the dots through non-supernatural means.”

I nod. “Does that work?”

“Not always.” The other detective, who earlier introduced himself as Jared Kehoe, speaks up for the first time. I put him around fifty, with tanned, almost leathery skin, thinning dark hair and sideburns, and pale blue eyes. “When I started out in Philly PD, we had a psychic who consulted with us on several high-profile cases. Sometimes we were able to build on what she told us enough to satisfy a judge, sometimes we weren’t.”

“Your psychic was a woman?”

“Uh huh. Sweet old lady. Lottie something-or-other was her name. Passed a few years ago.” He clicks his tongue. “Not every case she helped on had a happy ending, but she sure made a believer out of me.”

“Even so,” Natalie says, “the captain’s right. We can’t just turn you loose on our case files without approval.”

I stare into my enemy-turned-friend’s chocolate-brown eyes for several seconds, playing out the possibilities of becoming a full-fledged psychic consultant in my mind. During my delinquent period, the notion of helping the cops, in any capacity, would have been about as ludicrous as climbing Mount Everest in only a Speedo.

“Fair enough,” I say, shoving a hand through my hair.

When I first discovered I could unlock a virtual treasure trove of memories from inanimate objects just by touching them, using my ability this way seemed perfectly logical—not only could I help my fellow man, but it would help me assuage my guilt for turning my life into a complete shit-pile. While I struggled to get a handle on not only the scope but the nature of my ESP, I learned the hard way how not to investigate crimes. On two occasions, I’ve almost gotten my stupid ass extinguished because of my reckless nature.

But I’m smarter now. Thanks to Gina, I’ve got a firmer control of my psychometric ability, and on what it means to be a Special. And thanks to Natalie, I’m much more well-versed in things like rules of evidence and police procedures.

I don’t need to be a hero to help. Just like with this case, I can use my powers to give the PPD a nudge in the right direction, all within a controlled environment. Who knows how many cases, long cold, I can help close?

Time will tell.

“If we have any more cases that require your…unique talents,” Natalie says, “we’ll let you know.”

“Okay.” I stand, snag my jacket from the table, and pull it on.

“Cap?” Kehoe’s forehead wrinkles as if in deep thought. “You want to give Mr. Baxter a crack at the Redbird?”

“The what?” I whisper at Natalie, puzzled. She doesn’t respond.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Captain Callahan says. “I still haven’t heard back from the symbology expert in Colorado yet. And last I checked, the lab was running more metallurgical tests on it.”

“Director Lovett told me this morning those were done,” Kehoe says. “Come on, Cap. What’s it gonna hurt? Maybe we can at least find out who John Doe was.”

The captain scratches the back of his mostly bald head as he faces Natalie. “You’re the lead detective, Rojas. What do you think?”

Natalie stares at me for a few moments, then shrugs. “I’m with Kehoe. Barring a ninth-inning miracle, this case is heading for the unsolved pile. If Bax doesn’t get anything from the Redbird, we’re no worse off.”

The needle on my internal curiosity gauge spikes, but I remain silent. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it sounds hella cool.

Captain Callahan heaves out a sigh. “Yeah, okay.” He digs a cell phone from his jacket, taps the screen, then puts it to his ear. “Hey, Mike. Are you done running tests on the Redbird?” Pause. “I see. Could you have CSI Olsen bring it up to Interrogation One, please?” Pause. “Thanks.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. “It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Since it seems I’m not leaving yet, I sit back in the chair. “Someone wanna tell me what this Redbird thing is?”

It’s Natalie who obliges. “Six days ago, the fire department responded to a blaze at an abandoned warehouse on Baseline. Thankfully, they were able to put it out before the whole place went up. We were called in when a body was discovered in the wreckage, naked and nearly burned to a crisp.”

Whoa.

She continues, “We had to classify him as a John Doe, as there wasn’t enough left of him to run prints or dental records. We sent his DNA to CODIS, nothing yet. All we know for sure is that he was male, mid-to-late forties.”

“Did the fire kill him?” I ask.

“No, that happened postmortem. Cause of death was a bullet to the heart. From the powder burns on the guy’s internal organs, the M.E. identified the slug as a .40 hollow point from a Glock 27 semi-auto. Our only other clue was a coin.”

“What kind of coin?”

“A silver one,” the captain says, “featuring the outline of a bird. We haven’t been able to match the symbol, or the coin, to anything in the national database. Chief Travis sent a copy of the report to the FBI, but it may be weeks before we hear back.”

“There were also traces of red acrylic paint on it, so Director Lovett—who’s a huge Arizona Cardinals fan—started calling it the Redbird,” Kehoe adds.

“Gotcha.” I drum my fingers on the table in anticipation. “And this Redbird was, what, in the guy’s hand?”

“No.” Natalie grimaces. “It was in his stomach.”

“He swallowed it?”

“Either that, or he was force-fed it before he died.”

Captain Callahan leans his large frame against the table. “Anyway, like Detective Rojas said, we’re pretty much out of leads at this point. So if you’re up to it…”

I take a few seconds to consider the sanity of what I’m being asked to do. It’s a lot to digest. No pun intended.

Whoever killed this guy took the trouble to cover their tracks by making him unidentifiable, disposing of his body in a place where there wouldn’t be any witnesses.

Could it be a serial killer, and the coin is some kind of sick calling card? It’s only been two months since I helped the cops end Harold Crane’s yearlong killing spree. The last thing this city needs is another wacko like him. Especially around Christmas.

On the other hand, if the dead dude swallowed the coin deliberately, that sets off an even wider array of possibilities. He could be a thief, a smuggler…or a spy.

Color me intrigued.

A young man with a shock of black hair and a dark blue polo appears in the doorway. We lock eyes, and a smile washes over his face. “Bax! How ya doin’, man?”

“Doing okay, Eddie,” I greet CSI Olsen, the captain’s son-in-law. My gaze then falls to the plastic evidence bag in his hand. “Is that it?”

“This is it.” He holds the bag out to Captain Callahan. “I was going to ask why you wanted it, but since Bax is here, I can guess.” He flashes me a grin.

Eddie, along with about a dozen others within the department, already knows about my ESP. Given how much I loathed cops not long ago, it took me a while to come to terms with the fact that so many in law enforcement know what I am and what I can do.

Well, most of what I can do, anyway. I haven’t gotten around to letting my fellow investigators in on my other little secret—namely, that I have regular conversations with dead relatives.

The captain takes the bag from Eddie. “Thank you, Mr. Olsen, that’ll be all for now.”

Eddie’s face falls. “Please, sir, do you mind if I watch Mr. Baxter in action? You know I’m into supernatural stuff.”

“Mr. Olsen—”

“I don’t mind,” I interject. “It’s not like he hasn’t seen me do it before.”

Captain Callahan scowls briefly at his son-in-law, then lets out a snort. “Fine. Let’s just do this.” He hands me the bag,

Four pairs of eyes survey me as I examine the object inside the bag. It’s about the size of a half-dollar, and despite spending who knows how long inside a human being’s stomach, it looks almost brand new. I spot a few flecks of the aforementioned red paint dotting its surface, which is emblazoned with the outline of a giant predatory bird. A quick scan of the other side reveals the same design. There are no other markings.

With a sigh, I unseal the bag and tip the coin onto the table. It spins briefly on its axis, the sound reverberating off the obnoxiously green concrete walls. When it finally settles, I hover my fingers above it. Immediately, I feel something, like a psychic gust of wind that makes me yank my hands away.

Oh, man.

My ability to detect psychically charged objects is still in an intermediate stage, but even I know this coin is the psychic equivalent of a live wire. I can practically see the bird depicted on the coin’s surface opening its beak and screeching at me to touch it.

Natalie’s eyes flash with concern from across the table. “Are you okay?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah, but…wow. This thing is putting out psychic energy in waves. I have to do this carefully, or it’ll be like a grenade going off in my mind.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t touch it. We welcome your help, but it’s not worth risking brain damage.”

I recall the moment the ghost of my great-grandfather, Amos, fused his psychic energy with mine in order to save me from dying at Tim’s hands. It worked, and I escaped with only a bad headache, but damn, it hurt.

Natalie’s right. Touching this coin would be a moronically stupid risk.

On the other hand, how can I sharpen my psychometric skills if I play it safe all the time?

“I can do it,” I say with far more confidence than I’m feeling.

“Are you sure?” the captain asks.

I nod. “But if it looks like things are going sideways, rip the coin from my hand, okay?”

Natalie rises, skirts the table, and moves to stand next to me. “Ready when you are.”

With a final glance at Natalie, Eddie, Kehoe, and the captain, I focus on the coin. Going through the breathing regimen that Gina taught me at the outset of my powers, I push my concentration as hard as I can. One millimeter at a time, I guide my fingers closer to the metal surface.

The interrogation room dissolves away before I’ve even made contact, and an image jumps into my mind. Faint at first, like a blurry photo, but coalescing with each passing second. Then comes a spike of adrenaline, of desperation, of almost paralyzing fear.

Here goes nothing.

My fingertip grazes the cold metal of the coin.

ChapterTwo

The smell of saltwater assaults my nostrils as I sprint across the bridge. My heart pounds inside my chest, so hard that I barely notice the flotilla of boats docked in the marina below. The bridge is well-lit, even this late at night when there aren’t many tourists, so the chances they won’t see me are horribly low. But I have no choice.

“Itu dia!” someone shouts, followed by the pounding of footsteps. Many footsteps.

The coin clutched tight in my fist, I finish crossing the bridge and cut to my left down a path that runs between the marina and a huge grandstand. One glance over my shoulder confirms the men chasing me have gained ground. Behind them, lit up like Christmas, is the most enormous Ferris wheel I’ve ever seen.

A pang of regret knifes through me.

Jonathan, old son, you’re in deep shite now.

My lungs heave as I turn inland and come to a one-way street. Even at this hour, traffic is heavy and many of the nearby shops are open. My best hope is to blend in with the crowd.

I race across the street, narrowly avoiding a speeding taxi. In front of me, a huge structure of glass and steel beckons. A shopping mall, with a movie theater complex. Which means darkened rooms with lots of exits.

The teenage boy manning the box office is so engrossed in his cell phone, he doesn’t notice me slipping past him and into the lobby. Thinking fast, I jump the velvet rope and run down a corridor of theaters before anyone can object.

I don’t see or hear my pursuers anymore. That’s good. Maybe I’ve shaken them off.

I pick a door at random and enter, slowing my pace as I stroll down the aisle. The movie looks to be well underway. Only half of the hundred or so seats are occupied. Out of breath, I flop into one near the front.

On the screen, an Asian man and woman are engaged in some sappy love scene. I don’t understand a word they’re saying, and as the subtitles are also not in English, it’s easy to ignore.

My eyes go to the door. My stomach twists in dread as a squat man in tight black clothes appears. In the brightness of the high-def screen, it takes him only seconds to spot me.

Shite.

By the time I’ve scrambled back to the aisle, the man is upon me. He swings his leg in a roundhouse kick, but I lean back before his foot collides with my skull. In a fluid motion, he follows this with a punch aimed at my stomach.

Knowing I have to end this quickly before his fellow henchmen arrive, I pivot, grab his outstretched wrist and yank it upward, then drive my foot into his midsection. The breath leaves his lungs, but he doesn’t fall. With a snarl, he launches himself at me, no doubt hoping to wrestle me to the ground. Expelling a quick breath, I step backward while thrusting a fist toward his nose. It impacts with a sickening crunch, disorienting him. I follow with a jab to his throat. An elbow strike to his eye finally puts him down.

Dozens of faces stare at me in shock. Rather than explain my actions to the late-night theater crowd, I turn on my heels and bolt for the emergency exit.

The door leads me into a high-walled alley behind the theater. According to the signage—some of which, thankfully, is in English—going left will lead me back to the mall, whereas turning right will take me to the parking garage. That’s my way out.

I make it to the garage undetected. I scan the rows of cars for one that I can break into and hotwire to make my escape.

That’s when I see the man. I recognize him immediately from the photos I was shown before I left home.

The Korean.

Calm as you please, he steps out into the middle of the driving lane, his piercing black eyes boring into mine. With his short height and modest build, he doesn’t look like much physically, but I know better. This is one of the most dangerous men in the world.

“Mr. Muir.” He says it softly, but the menace in his voice is unmistakable.

I look around frantically for another avenue of escape, but two more black-clad thugs step from the shadows, cutting off any possible retreat.

Bollocks.

Both men draw guns from their belts and aim them at me. Before they can get a shot off, I dive into the narrow space between two cars. Crouching low, I pull my own gun from the holster at my side. With my back against the wheel well of a silver sedan, I slide the clip out.

Two bullets.

Three bad guys.

Not looking good.

With a grunt, I shove the clip back in. I open my fist, revealing the coin that’s been clutched there for the last fifteen minutes. I stare at the bird stamped on its surface for several moments, then cram the thing into my mouth. I swallow it on the third attempt, suppressing a gag and shuddering in discomfort as it works its way down my esophagus.

I lift myself up, turning when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. One of the thugs leaps into view, gun raised. I’m quicker. My shot catches him square in the chest, and he drops onto the concrete.

Then my entire body goes limp.

What the fuck?

I slump against the door of the sedan, all strength gone from my limbs. I can barely move, barely think. My mind, already exhausted from the day’s events, begins to cloud over. I try to will the life back into my legs, but it’s no use. They give way, and I slide back to the ground.

I lift my head to see The Koreanapproaching at a leisurely pace. He’s holding his palms out to me, fingers splayed, his brow creased in concentration.

With the last of my strength, I face The Korean, now standing next to the other gunman, who towers over him. “You…won’t…” My lungs seem to have forgotten how to draw in air, so I can barely get the words out.

“Please, continue, Mr. Muir,” the man says with infuriating calm. As I watch, he lowers his hands, and the vice-grip on my chest eases. “We won’t what?”

I shoot him my most defiant glare. “You won’t…win.”

His only response is a cold smile. He nods at the huge gunman, who raises his weapon.

The loud report of a bullet meets my ears a split-second after a searing heat punches through my chest. Something wet soaks my shirt.

Darkness steals my sight, and the heat is replaced with numbing cold.

Then…nothing.

I remove my fingers from the coin. They’re shaking so bad I worry they might fly off my hands. I push away from the table, leaning back in the metal chair. I can feel the others watching me, but don’t turn to face them.

Jesus H.

What have I stepped into this time?

I remain fixated on the coin. It’s such an innocent-looking thing. No one would think by looking at it that it held the psychic energy generated by a dying man’s last minutes of life.

Natalie clasps my shoulders, and she gives me a gentle shake. “Bax? Can you hear me? Breathe, kid, breathe.”

Was I holding my breath? Crap, I was.

I take in three large gulps of air, followed by the remaining water in the bottle. I count off twenty seconds before I’m coherent enough to speak again. “Holy shit,” I say through clenched teeth. “Holyshit holyshit holyshit.”

Was that real?

One second, Jonathan’s fine. The next, all his motor control just vanished like it had been sucked out through a straw.

The Korean guy. He waved his hands at Jonathan. Could…could that have had something to do with his sudden loss of control?

I can’t reveal this to my colleagues. They may believe me, or they may not. I’m not sure which scenario would have a worse ending.

I slump back in my chair, finally tearing my gaze away from the coin. “That was fucking intense.”

“You saw the dead guy?” Kehoe asks, shuffling toward me.

I shake my head, which helps lift the remaining fog from my brain. “I was the dead guy.” One more exhale, and I face Natalie. “How long was I out?”

She checks her watch. “Just under nine minutes, at a guess. You sure you’re okay?”

Little by little, I feel my racing heartbeat slow, and my breathing return to normal. “I’m okay. Did you just say nine minutes?”

“Around there, yeah.”

“Huh. That destroys my previous record for a single, uninterrupted flash by like three minutes.” I manage a weak smile. “Sweet.”

“Ahem.” Captain Callahan’s burly frame appears in front of me, his expression a mixture of paternal concern and weary grumpiness. “Would you care to give us your report, Mr. Baxter?”

I nod. “Should I write it down?”

Natalie digs a notebook and pen from her jacket pocket. “I’ll do that. Fire when ready.”

“The man’s name is…was Jonathan Muir. Pretty sure he was English.”

“How do you know that?”

“From his accent. Plus, he said ‘shite’ and ‘bollocks.’”

She scribbles in the notebook. “What else?”

I face Captain Callahan. “He wasn’t killed in this country. That much I’m sure of.”

The big man’s jaw drops open. “What? Where was he killed, then?”

“Somewhere in Asia, I’m guessing. Most of the people he saw while he was running for his life were Asian. So were the guys who killed him.” I rub my chest, the same spot where the bullet penetrated poor Jonathan’s. “I felt him take his last breath.”

“Hold on.” Eddie squeezes between Kehoe and the captain and gawks at me. “You’re saying someone murdered this man in Asia, and instead of disposing of his corpse in one of a million different ways, his killers flew his body halfway around the world, then dumped him in an abandoned warehouse in Arizona? In what universe does that make sense?”

“I don’t know. You’re the cops, you figure it out,” I say with way more snark than these people deserve, given that I volunteered for this crazy duty. “But this man wasn’t your average Joe. I watched him use some fancy moves on a bad guy. He killed another one with his gun.”

Natalie scratches off a few more notes. “Anything else you can give us?”

“Yeah, plenty.” I point at the coin. “But I’ll need a few more laps around the track in order to be crystal clear on the details.”

“Are you up to it?” Kehoe asks.

I scan everyone’s face. Despite the underlying dread about the can of worms I may have just opened, I feel a swell of pride at what I’ve accomplished. Not only did I endure the longest flash I’ve ever experienced without blacking out, but I did it in such a way that I was able to keep the emotional tsunami from overwhelming me.

Not to mention, I now have these four people—three of whom have decades of collective experience as police officers—completely enthralled.

I scooch forward on the chair, placing my hands several inches on either side of the coin. “Get me another water,” I say with far more confidence than before. “You guys owe me a steak dinner for this.”

It’s with a profound sense of relief that I stand from the interrogation room’s horribly uncomfortable chair and make my way out the door.

I relived Mr. Muir’s final stand three more times, giving Natalie every detail I could remember after each pass. This included descriptions of the landmarks Jonathan encountered—the bridge, the grandstand, the mall, and that ginormous Ferris wheel—as well as the prevalence of Asian people, culture, and language. I have no doubt my fellow investigators will soon deduce where Jonathan met his end. Where they go from there? Not my problem.

Except for the tiny matter of what the hell I just witnessed, which is so far outside my realm of psychic expertise that my head spins just thinking about it. I’m gonna need help getting my mind around it before my paranoid fantasies start having paranoid fantasies.

According to Gina, ninety-nine percent of all psychic abilities are passive, affecting the psychic and no one else. Psychometry certainly falls into that category, as does aurapathy, Gina and Trina’s ability.

I do some quick math in my head. In the United States, there are approximately 330 million people. Gina told me roughly one in every fifty thousand is a Special, which means there are between six and seven thousand psychics currently residing in this country, give or take. So, if Gina’s numbers are accurate, there could be around seventy psychics in the greater Phoenix area whose powers affect more than just themselves. Apply that percentage to the number of people on the planet, and…

Oh my.

Jonathan called The Korean “one of the most dangerous men in the world.” If he’s one of the one percent…

The world just got a whole lot scarier.

ChapterThree

Gina stares at me, utterly gobsmacked, across her kitchen counter. The wooden spoon she had been using to stir a delicious-smelling sauce now hovers near the small pot, dripping its bounty onto the stovetop. She doesn’t notice.

I wait, with droll amusement, for her to respond to my rather colorful description of the flash I experienced at the precinct. And wait.

I’m just about to cede defeat in our staring contest when a hiss comes from the stove. The sauce, now at a boil, is erupting over the side.

“Shit!” In the blink of an eye, her chef side reasserts control. She transfers the pot to an unlit burner, continuing to stir. The sauce accepts her attentions gleefully, and the bubbling subsides. With a huff, she tears a paper towel from a nearby roll and begins sopping up the mess.

I suppress a laugh. Gina, the consummate mom, is a pro at not using cusswords, so I can’t help but smile when the rare expletive escapes. Thankfully, Trina’s not here to call her on it. “Sorry. Maybe I should have waited till later to drop that bomb on you.”

She shakes her head, turns down the burner’s heat, replaces the pot on it, and continues working her magic on its contents. “You know, when I asked you about your day, I wasn’t expecting details of a flash straight out of a James Bond movie.”

“Tell me about it. Reliving this guy’s last stand in real time was…”

“Bat-nuts crazy?”

This time I don’t hold back the laugh. “Yeah, that.”

“Wow.” She grabs a cheap plastic spoon from a nearby box, samples her creation, and tosses the utensil in the garbage. “Hearing that story makes me glad I picked the door that read ‘quiet life’ when The Agency interviewed me. No offense.”

“None taken. So what do you think?”

Her brow furrows. “Seriously? You want me to tell you whether I think this Korean guy was an Elite?”

“Is that what the ones who can affect others are called?”

“That’s what my grandma, Rose, called them. Though if anyone in my family ever knew one, or knew someone who knew one, they never told me about it. So, I’m not sure how much help I can be.” She grabs another spoon. “Here, make yourself useful.”

As a rule, I never turn down a chance to sample anything Gina’s cooked up. She fills the spoon with sauce, blows on it a couple times, then guides it into my mouth. I immediately get the tang of lemon mixed with white wine, as well as a few other herbs I can’t identify. “What am I tasting?”

“A drizzle for a veal recipe I’m currently tweaking,” she says. “Thoughts?”

I let the taste linger on my tongue for a few seconds longer. “It’s terrific, but I think it’s missing something. Maybe a dash of onion powder?”

Her face lights up, and she grabs a small jar from her spice rack. After mixing in a few sprinkles, she takes another taste. “Good call,” she says, smacking her lips.

I fill another spoon and slurp it down. “Oh, yeah. There’s a winner.”

“You’re developing a palate. That’s wonderful.” She shuts off the burner, moves the pot to the back again, and makes a notation on a nearby notepad. “Thanks, Bax.”

“Anytime.”

Gina removes her apron and leads me to her sofa, where we sit. “So anyway, regarding your mystery man…tell me again why you think he’s psychic.”

“Just a feeling.” I picture the Korean’s cold, stoic face in my mind. “Jonathan called him ‘one of the most dangerous men in the world’. He held his hands out toward me, and it was literally like a switch had been thrown. All the strength just left my…um, his body. He was a sitting duck after that.”

She rubs her chin. “It’s possible, I suppose. But since I wasn’t there, I can’t render a judgement. Even if I could, this is way, way out of my league. You’re not planning on pursuing this case, are you?”

I don’t miss the motherly concern in her voice. “Hell, no. The cops didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, so they asked for my help, which I gave them. Where they go next has nothing to do with me.”

“Smart man.” She smacks my knee with her palm. “I was worried you were going to add ‘international espionage’ to your already crowded skill set.”

“What, you don’t think I could cut it as a superspy?” I give her a little eye-smolder while bringing my hands together in front of my face, finger guns locked and loaded. “Baxter. Bernard Baxter,” I add in a horrible British accent.

Her punctuated eye-roll tells me my self-confidence is misplaced.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I relent, putting one finger-gun against my head and squeezing the invisible trigger. “I think I’ll stick to making coffee for now.”

“Again, smart man.” Gina removes the tie holding her brown hair in place, letting if flow down just past her shoulders. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but having you next door gives me a great deal of comfort, and not just because you’re always there to look after Trina when things are hectic at the restaurant. Trina has asked a few times if we can knock down the wall separating our units so we can all live together.”

This brings a grin to my face. I can’t put into words how much having Gina and Trina in my life has meant to me. Nothing—not even the allure of becoming a dashing secret agent—could compare. “I could get behind that idea, but I doubt Ted would allow it.”

“Probably not. That reminds me, I need to ask him to fix our leaky bathtub faucet.” She digs her cell from her pocket and shoots off a text, which I presume is for our mustachioed property manager.

I use the brief silence to segue to the primary reason I came over. “So, is everything all set for tomorrow night?”

She sets her phone on the end table and faces me. “Just about. I have all the ingredients I need, and since I have tomorrow off, I’ll start my preparations as soon as Trina leaves for school.”

“Awesome.” I rub my hands together. “Piper says her dad, Angus, is as even-tempered as a man can be, but I still worry that when you’re meeting your daughter’s boyfriend for the first time, all bets are off.”

“You’ll do fine. Just tone down the snark and be the Bax I’ve grown to love.” She smiles.

“Good advice. Thanks again for agreeing to cater for us.”

Worry flashes through her dark brown eyes. “Well, don’t thank me yet. I’ve never made these dishes before. Fortunately, my old culinary instructor, Chef Bourque, was only too happy to give me some pointers.”

“I have the utmost confidence in you. Just let me know how much the tab was. I’m sure some of those items weren’t easy to get.”

“My pleasure. I love a challenge, especially when it comes to cooking. And I may have one other surprise for Piper’s dad.”

I blink several times. “What surprise?”

Her olive skin flushes. “I don’t want to say, in case I can’t come through. I should know by mid-afternoon one way or another. Are you working tomorrow?”

“Nine to three. I’m meeting Sheila after work so I can give her her present, but that probably won’t take more than an hour. Piper and her dad should be over by six-thirty.”

“All right then. Stop by when you get home so we can set up your table. I’ll break out the good china.”

Best. Neighbor. Ever.

Gina’s door is flung open and three preteen girls rush in, followed by a gust of frigid wind. Trina shuts it with a resounding thunk and tears the pink wool cap from her head, her little lungs heaving. Next to her, Cheyanne and Crescent draw in big gulps of toasty indoor air as they slide out of their thick, puffy jackets.

“Cold outside?” I ask, grinning stupidly.

Crescent gives me the stink-eye over the rim of her wire-framed glasses. “Like, duh.” She hugs herself and stamps her feet.

“Yeah, duh, Bax,” Cheyanne adds.

“Have you been out there?” Trina asks, rubbing her face with her mittened hands.

I nod.

“And you weren’t freezing?” Cheyanne points at my bare arms and thin white tee.

“I had that on,” I say, pointing to the Columbia jacket hanging on the seat I occupied earlier. “Besides, the cold never bothered me anyway.”

Cheyanne giggles at the reference to Frozen, by far her favorite movie.

Crescent’s glare intensifies. “Your jokes are getting worse.”

Trina smacks her shoulder. “Come on, Cres, just let it go.” Then she and Cheyanne lock eyes, grin hugely, and explode into song. “Let it gooooo, let it goooooooooo…”

Next to me, Gina shakes her head. “Now you’ve done it.”

“I regret nothing,” I reply.

Halfway into the chorus, Crescent claps her hands over her ears. “Jeez, stop, you guys! Every winter, it’s like you have a contest to see who can sing it worse!”

Cheyanne’s face falls. “We’re not that bad.”

“You’re not that good, either.”

“I’ll second that,” Gina says.

“Thank you, Ms. Forrester,” Crescent says, exasperated. “At least someone agrees with me.”

Trina opens her mouth as if to complain further, but instead changes the subject. “Mom, how long before dinner’s ready?”

Gina checks the antique pendulum clock on the wall. “About forty minutes.”

“Okay.”

The trio rush to the game console on the carpet next to Gina’s huge TV. Within moments, the girls are engrossed in a round of Super Smash Brothers and making little-girl small talk.

I face Gina, and we rise to our feet. “I guess that’s my cue to go. I want to get a jump on making my place spotless for tomorrow night.”

She nods in approval. I grab my jacket, shrug it on, and she leads me to the back door. “You’re gonna do fine, Bax. Piper loves you. I’m sure her dad will too.” She grins. “Especially after he sees what’s for dinner.”

I blow out a breath. “I hope so. It’s just…I’ve never had a relationship serious enough to warrant a ‘meet the parent’ moment, you know?”

“That’s the nature of the beast we call love.” She nudges my shoulder.

“And…the other thing we talked about?”

Gina averts her gaze for a moment, then clicks her tongue. “Don’t lose sleep over that, either. You got a peek into a world that I want no part of, and neither should you. We may be psychics, but that doesn’t mean we’re not entitled to lives that are just as boring as normal people’s.”

I laugh. “You know, when you say it like that, it doesn’t sound so bad.”

A raucous cheer erupts from the family room. I hear a “Got you, Mr. Ugly!” that I attribute to Trina.

Gina exhales deeply. “You think being a spy is tough? Try being a single mom.”

True, that. I honestly don’t know how she holds it all together. One of the many reasons I love her, and Trina, so much.

She leans in for a hug, which I return. I punctuate the embrace with a kiss on her temple. “See you tomorrow, G.”

“See ya.”

ChapterFour

Thursday, December 23

I rise early, thoughts of Jonathan Muir and his Korean nemesis still an unwelcome presence in my head. Despite Gina’s advice, I can’t seem to let this bizarre revelation about an Elite super-psychic villain working for a foreign government slip from my brain.

I mean, come on. Helping the cops doesn’t make me a detective any more than spending an hour inside the head of a guy racing through the streets of some unknown Asian metropolis makes me a spy. How do I even know Jonathan Muir was the good guy in the scene I relived yesterday? It seemed like he was, but I know bad guys tend to view themselves as being on the side of righteousness while they commit terrible acts. True, the Korean and his thugs did dispatch him with a cold ruthlessness that would chill any normal human to the bone, but that’s not enough to prove this was a clear-cut case of good versus evil. Even I’m not naïve enough to think international espionage is as black-and-white as they make it look in the movies.

In order to calm my whirling thoughts, I decide to call Natalie before I hop on my ten-speed and bike to work. After a few pleasantries, I ask her if my two flashes provided any concrete leads.

“Regarding Mason Crenshaw and his dipshit uncle, definitely,” she responds. “Szymanski’s already found two witnesses that contradict Gorman’s coworkers’ statements. Every city cop and state trooper in the western United States has a description of him, his nephew, and his truck.”

This news improves my mood. “Nail the prick.”

“Oh, we will. It’s not like he’s some hedge fund billionaire who can jet off to a non-extradition country of his choice. We’ll get him.” A somber tone edges into her voice. “I just pray Mason’s unharmed when we do. Gorman’s not the most stable character around.”

Aaaand there goes my good mood. “What about the Redbird?”

“Got some news there, too. From your descriptions of the geography and the landmarks, we determined that the mysterious Mr. Muir died in Singapore. This was confirmed by the contents of his stomach, excluding the coin.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, between the fire and the likelihood that his killers kept his body on ice during transport across the Pacific, an exact time of death is going to be really tough to lock down.”

I have no desire to discuss the dead guy’s last meal, so I fast-forward past the topic. “So what’s next?”