Milo looked at me with such compassion that it only made me feel worse, and I swallowed hard to hold down the sob that wanted to burst from my throat. Finally he said gently, “Abby, you were the one who told me I had the wrong guy in custody. You were the one who mentioned a connection with the post office. You were the one who came up with a tire iron and a ski mask, and thanks to you, Abigail Cooper, we now have a lot more to go on. There is no way you hindered this investigation, and the truth is quite the contrary: You’ve been a true help from day one.”
His words were my undoing. I was fragile enough, exhausted, stressed out, and vulnerable, not to mention shit-faced, and I couldn’t help it: I buried my head in my hands and sobbed like a little girl. I felt Milo sit down on the edge of my chair and wrap an arm across my shoulders as he patted me on the back and whispered in my ear that everything was going to be okay.
Finally I’d collected myself enough to sit back, and Milo handed me a tissue from the Kleenex box on my coffee table. “Here,” he said gently.
I took the tissue and wiped my eyes, sniffing loudly, and mouthed Thanks to him.
“So that’s why you didn’t return my calls? All this time you felt guilty?”
I nodded as I blew my nose and reached for another tissue.
Milo chuckled and said, “And I thought you were angry at me, and that’s why you didn’t call me back.”
“Why would I be angry at you?” I asked, surprised by that declaration.
“Because I didn’t listen to you. Because I was so sure we had the right guy in custody.”
“You still holding him?” I asked, curious about what they would do with Jeff Zimmer.
“No, we reduced the charges and let him go on bond.”
“Reduced the charges?”
“Peeping Tom is an illegal activity.”
“Oh . . . the photos,” I said, remembering the pictures he’d taken of Cathy without her knowledge.
“Yeah. Cathy’s boyfriend has already moved all of their belongings to another side of town, so Cathy won’t have to live next door to Zimmer when she gets out of the hospital.”
“Good for them.”
“We also found Karen Millstone’s car—remember I asked if you could tune in on that for us in one of the messages I left you?”
“Yeah,” I said ducking my head. Milo had pleaded with me to come into the station and help find Karen’s car. The police suspected the rapist might have stolen it, and if I could get a bead on its location, then maybe they’d have an idea where this guy lived.
“It wasn’t stolen after all, but was parked in your parking structure, about four floors up.”
“You mean the one across the street from my office?”
I asked, a little alarmed that death had come so close to where I worked.
“Yeah. We found some shopping bags in the car from a couple of the boutiques down the street, and we think she parked her car in the structure because it’s centrally located between the local shops and the post office.”
I thought about that for a minute. The post office was right next door to the parking garage, but it had a parking lot of its own, which explained why, when detectives first searched the post office’s parking lot, her car wasn’t found. Still, it creeped me out that the killer had been less than a block away. Had I seen him? Had I walked right past him on the street as he went on his way to kill Karen Millstone? I shivered involuntarily as the thought gave me goose bumps.
“We think she was attacked shortly after she came out of the post office. We found a few letters from her PO box in her purse, so we know she was killed after she left the building. Surveillance cameras in the lobby of the post office show her entering at around eight thirty, and leaving about three minutes later.”
“Wasn’t the post office closed at that time of night?”
“Yes, but if you have a post office box you can access it anytime; there’s a small section of the lobby that’s always open.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking as my radar began buzzing, but at the moment I was in no mood to answer the call.
“So you going to come back and help me solve this case?” Milo asked after a moment.
I stared at the tissue wadded up in my hand. Tonight I just couldn’t say yes. “I don’t know, Milo. I think I just need a little time to come to grips with all this, and maybe in a few days I’ll feel okay enough to help, but right now I’m just tired and I need a break, you know?”
There was a mixture of disappointment and compassion on Milo’s face as he squeezed my shoulder. “Sure thing. That’s fine,” he said as he got up and carried his empty beer bottle and my nearly empty glass of wine to the sink. He came back and extended his hand, helping me up out of the chair. “It’s time for me to head on home. I haven’t seen much of my wife lately, and I’m starting to miss her, if you catch my drift. . . .”
I smiled at the way he made his eyebrows dance at the “catch my drift” part and I walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming over.”
He paused before opening the door and said, “You know, it’s not up to you to always get it right. Sometimes you’re supposed to understand it only so far, and because the message comes to you doesn’t mean that it’s your sole responsibility to figure it out. Okay?”
His words were like a balm on an open and ugly wound, and I squeezed his arm as he walked through the door, thanking my guides for sending him here tonight.
After locking up I went upstairs to bed with Eggy in tow and slept straight through for the first time in days.
The next day was spent mostly in bed. I’d purchased a space heater for my bedroom, which helped considerably with the temperature, and Eggy and I did nothing all day but lounge. I snacked on potato chips and homemade guacamole, watched three movies back-to-back, ordered a delivery of my usual from Pi’s and never got out of my jammies.
At six I called my sister, whom I hadn’t heard from since just before her party on Sunday, to see how the grand event had gone. I got her voice mail and left a message, expecting to get a call back within an hour.
By nine o’clock, however, I still hadn’t heard from her, so I dialed again and got voice mail a second time. This was odd, because even if Cat wasn’t home there was usually a nanny or housekeeper who picked up the phone. Weird.
At ten, exhausted by a full day of doing nothing, I turned out the light and went to sleep, thinking that I’d track Cat down at her office when I woke up the next morning.
The phone rang at eight thirty. I’d been awake for about half an hour, but it still pissed me off that someone would call that early. “Hello,” I said into the receiver with all the warmth of an Antarctic winter.
“Miss Cooper?” a gravelly voice said, my last name obscured by a thick accent.
It took me a moment to find my voice. I was surprised that Andros Kapordelis would have the nerve to call me at home, and wondered how he’d come across my unlisted number. “How did you get this number?”
“I have my ways,” he answered elusively. “I have something that I require your talents for. I will send a car this afternoon to get you and bring you to my office. . . .”
“Absolutely not!” I spat, my voice hard as steel. “Listen, Kapordelis, there is no way in hell I’m going to work for you. See, that’s the great thing about being self-employed; I can pick and choose who I will read for and who I won’t, and just so you know, for future reference, clients who kidnap me and have their goons assault me are not among the privileged who are allowed reentry onto my client list! We clear?” My heart was hammering in my chest, and I had to admit my palms had gone sweaty. Would this guy take no for an answer?
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for some reason this only made my heart beat faster. Finally Kapordelis spoke, but his voice was considerably softer, more menacing and definitely more frightening. “It is not good to turn me down, Miss Cooper. You should reconsider.”
I gulped, but somehow managed to stick to my guns “Li
sten, Mr. Kapordelis, I’ve refunded your money—with considerable interest—and I have humored you by not filing criminal charges for the kidnapping-and-assault thing, and now all I want from you is to be left alone. I will not willingly cooperate with you because you strike me as a violent man. I abhor violence, and I abhor men who condone it. My gift is not a plaything to be used and abused by you at your whim; it is mine to administer to people I willingly choose. There is no way you’re going to talk me into working for you, no amount of money you could offer me. Now you may send your goon after me again, but I swear to you, Mr. Kapordelis, if you do you will still not get what you want from me. Pain blocks my intuition, and the more you exert, the more I shut down, so that won’t work either.”
“There are other ways of persuasion, Miss Cooper. I can see that you have not considered them yet. Perhaps I will demonstrate a few of them for you and see if you change your mind in a few days.”
Before I could say anything more Kapordelis hung up with an ominous click. What other ways of persuasion was he talking about? There were goose bumps all up and down my arms as I set the cordless back in its cradle. I stared at the phone for several minutes as I pondered his cryptic last words. I was really going to have to watch my step for the next few days. It dawned on me just how precarious my situation was as I went into the kitchen to toast my bagel. This guy could hurt me, or even kill me. But there was no way in hell I was going to willingly work for him. It just went against everything I’d become.
When I was in the fourth grade I hung out with a bunch of older kids—mostly fifth-grade troublemakers, who allowed me to hang with them because I always took the blame when we got caught doing some nefarious act. After pulling one particularly nasty prank involving a classmate on crutches and my teacher’s pet hamster, I was sent to the principal’s office. My principal, Mr. Trombly, was a big bear of a man with bushy salt-and-pepper hair, shaggy eyebrows and a soft spot for malcontents like me.
I remember walking into his office and stoically taking my seat, setting my face defiantly and meeting his stare. We looked at each other across his large wooden desk for a long time, each refusing to blink. Finally with a heavy sigh he leaned back in his chair and picked up the report from my teacher with the laundry list of my latest transgressions. He shook his head in a tsk-tsk motion, and eyed me wisely.
What he said next had a profound effect on me, mostly because it was the first metaphor I ever really got. In his husky voice he said, “Abigail, if you walk in the mud all the time, pretty soon people are going to think your shoes are dirty.”
I’d been on the straight and narrow ever since.
As I smeared peanut butter onto my bagel, I worried that I could be facing a broken leg or arm, or something my imagination had yet to conjure. I didn’t think Andros would resort to killing me—I’d leave town if I thought that. But someone had to be the first to say no. Someone had to stand up to this guy, and I guess today I was that someone.
As I trotted back into the living room, Eggy in tow, there was a soft knock on the door. Eggy immediately abandoned me and started barking at the closed door. I had no idea who could be dropping by so early, and I paused, wondering if Andros had dispatched Goon to come over and do me in.
After a moment I walked to the front door on tiptoe and peeked through the peephole, my jaw dropping at the sight of the visitor on my front porch. Quickly I undid the lock and yanked it open as my sister threw herself forward into my arms, “Oh, Abby!” she wailed.
I pulled her into the living room, visually checking her over for injuries, assuming by the sight of her so distraught that she must be in pain. “Cat! What’s happened? Why are you here? What’s wrong?” I said anxiously.
“It’s terrible!” she cried, covering her face with both hands. “I can never go back! Never!”
“Where? Who? What . . . ? Cat, for God’s sake, talk to me!”
At this point I’d sat Cat on the sofa and was squatting down about a foot away, still trying to figure out where she was injured. Cat continued to wail uncontrollably, and I eyed the phone anxiously as I debated calling 911. Finally she sniffled and said, “They hate me!”
“Who? Who hates you?” I said gently, stroking her hair and trying to coax the information out of her.
“Everyone!” The announcement of this brought a fresh wave of tears as she buried her face into her hands again.
“Oh, honey,” I tried, taking a seat next to her and patting her gently on the back, “that just can’t be. Now take a deep breath, because I don’t understand. What are you doing here, and who, specifically, hates you?”
Cat moaned something incoherent, and waved a hand toward the purse she’d cast on the floor when she sat down on the couch. “What?” I asked, not understanding.
Cat pointed to the purse more vehemently this time, her voice a warbled, water-clogged sound. “In there!”
I reached down and picked up her purse; opening it, I looked inside. Nothing out of the ordinary struck me, except for a folded wad of papers. I looked a question mark at her and she pointed to them. Taking them out I unfolded them and began to read:
Catherine Cooper-Masters; Psychic Reading SurveyHow would you rate the accuracy of your psychic reading?If accuracy were dollars, you’d be in debt up to your ass!
What was the most astonishing thing you remember from your psychic reading?Probably when you accused me of bestiality—you need professional help, lady!
Even though this reading was free, how much would you be willing to pay for a reading of similar value?You would owe me money!
My eyes widened as I flipped to the next page and read another survey, but the second was even worse than the first. “Cat!” I gasped as I glanced through each successively horrible review. “What did you say to these people?”
Cat sobbed even harder at my question, and I got up to fetch the Kleenex. I offered her the box and she snatched several tissues as she sniffled and wiped her nose, then honked into a Kleenex and regarded me with slanted, puffy eyes. “I just read their fortunes! I can’t help it if the cards came up that way!”
“But, sweetie . . .” I said, glancing at another survey, “you told this woman she was going to die by this weekend!”
Cat nodded, looking distressed, “Yes, I remember that one . . . Nancy Cartwright. Awful thing, that. I’ll miss her when she’s gone.” She whimpered, squinting fresh tears into her Kleenex.
“And you told this woman her husband was leaving her for the nanny?”
“Marissa Carmichael.” Cat nodded. “She’s blaming me for telling her, when she should be calling her plastic surgeon for a fanny lift and firing the nanny.”
I read on and my jaw kept dropping. My sister had apparently read a dozen women, and all the readings were outlandishly horrible. The common themes were death, adultery, impoverishment and loss of mind, although the last one seemed more a reflection of my sister.
“Catherine Cooper-Masters,” I said as I read the last survey, adding a low whistle, truly amazed that she had caused such uproar.
“Actually, I’m changing my name back to just Catherine Cooper.” Cat sniffled, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.
“What do you mean? Why are you dropping the ‘Masters’?”
“Well, I did a reading for Tommy, that lying, cheating, soon-to-be-exbastard husband of mine! I’ve already called the attorney. I’m filing for divorce!”
I stood up and threw the surveys on the floor. “You what? Cat, are you out of your mind?”
“The cards don’t lie, Abby,” she said tightly, looking at me with a pained, convinced look.
I was speechless. I just stood above her for the longest time, my mouth agape and my hand cradling my forehead, willing my mind to process my sister’s ridiculous conclusions. Finally I collected myself and sat down next to her. I began to speak several times, but had a hard time deciding where to start. After three attempts I finally said, “Cat . . . listen to me. I do this stuff for a living, so believe me
when I tell you, sometimes what you take for fact is actually just a metaphor.”
“What do you mean?”
I sighed heavily and tried again. “Well, let’s take this example, okay? This woman . . .” I said, showing her the survey of the doomed Nancy Cartwright. “Now what made you believe that Nancy here was going to die?”
“Well, I remember pulling the death card, and it landed smack-dab on the ‘present’ position.”
“Okay,” I probed, “so what was next after the death card?”
“The chariot—and according to my book on tarot, that means Nancy will be in a fatal car crash and die before the week is through,” Cat explained as if I were five.
“I see,” I said, turning my intuition on and focusing on the name Nancy Cartwright. “See, what I’m getting is that Nancy just got a brand-new car, and she traded in her old one for the new—do you know if that’s correct?”
Cat looked at me with a shocked expression and said, “Oh, my God, Abby, you’re right! She pulled up to my house in a brand-new Lexus, and we were all wondering how she could afford such an expensive new car now that her husband’s company is in the toilet.”
I smirked at my sister—Cat, so aptly nicknamed. “You see?” I said. “Sometimes taking the literal translation isn’t the way to go. You have to trust what your gut tells you when you do this kind of interpretation and allow that there are many possible interpretations for every card. You have to rely on your intuition to tell you which one is the most accurate. Like with the death card—I think it was really talking about the death of her old car—the chariot, and the bringing in of her new one, the Lexus.”
“So I was wrong about everyone?” she asked, her voice growing sensitive.