Psychic Appeal- Urban Fantasy

Psychic Appeal Part 7

Detective Wallace bore a distinct resemblance to a walrus with his large, rotund body and thick facial hair. All he needed were tusks and maybe a tan, the guy looked like he hadn't seen the sun in a long time.

He greeted us with a scowl and rolled his eyes when he realized he needed an extra chair. With the air of a long-suffering martyr, he located a battered metal stool next to a neighboring desk for Jacob to sit on. I sat in an old wooden chair with uneven legs, its maple finish dark with dirt. I tried not to let my skin make contact with it. Although, my pale lilac suit had no choice. I made a mental note to get it dry cleaned before I wore it again. Like most urban centers, money was tight in Boston and it showed in the age of the office furniture. Everything was battered and dingy. I hoped they at least had top-of-the-line bulletproof vests.

The detective eased into the chair behind his scarred desk, and folded his arms across his stomach looking me over with a wary eye. "So, you're a PI?"

I nodded wrinkling my nose at the faint smell of something bad. I couldn't quite place the scent, but it reminded me of rotten eggs. "I have a lead for you." I looked around, trying to pinpoint the smell and my nose led me to the Detective. Maybe it was something he had for breakfast.

Unaware of the 'eau du egg' he emanated, the detective said, "Let me see your PI license first."

I fished it out of my purse and dropped it on his desk. He picked it up and scanned it. "You're psychic?"

"Yes."

"Have you found the brother then?"

"Not yet, but he was dead well before the robbery."

"Dead." He snorted. "How so? I've got him on tape robbing a bank the morning after his family's death."

Jacob shifted in his seat and made to respond, but I laid a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. The police didn't like emotional outbursts, a lesson I had learned from bitter experience. I didn't want Jacob to say something he would regret. He clamped his mouth shut at my touch and let me speak. "I know. I can explain."

"Can you explain or make an affidavit that'll stand in court? Which is it?" Detective Wallace raised his wirebrush eyebrows at me.

"Affidavit."

"Good. Let me get the paperwork." He stood and handed my license to me, his hand brushing my fingertips. That fleeting touch set off a cacophony of metaphysical alarms, and, instead of blocking it with my shields, I opened them and learned the Detective had no interest in law and order. Reading thoughts wasn't my strong suit, usually I just caught snatches of things, like a cell phone with a bad connection. For some reason, though, the Detective's mind was like an open book...in the horror genre.

With shaking hands, I put my license back into my purse and waited, holding my breath, until the Detective was out of sight to speak. "We have to go."

"What?" Jacob watched me get up.

"Just trust me. We'd better be gone before Detective Wallace comes back." I tugged on his arm. "I'll explain in the car."

Jacob allowed me to pull him to his feet and propel him toward the door. "I don't understand."

"If you want to live to hear an explanation, I suggest we get the hell out of here."

I broke into a trot, praying we reached the doors before Detective Wallace came back and realized I was on to him. Once we cleared the exit and made it outside, I began to run, pulling Jacob after me. He had stopped talking and matched my pace with no apparent strain. By comparison, I was already panting and sweating. If my life ever calmed down, I was going to have to do some serious cardio work. People who couldn't run for their lives ended up dead.