chapter 65

"Sixty-third. Sixty-third." Andrea Myles squinted through oversized sunglasses as she wedged the Crown Vic through New York traffic. "We're here. And I didn't say Anna was weird. I said she was unconventional."

Crook Kingsman struggled to keep the growl out of his voice. "Some kind of psychic, isn't she? Anna Dumain. Sounds like a television tarot reader."

"She's not a tarot reader." Andy braked and slipped into a rare parking space alongside Central park. "She's a scientist who studies... unusual things. She and her two cousins. They're like private investigators."

Crooks gut tightened at Andy's I'm-holding-a-few-things-back tone. "And?"

        "And she's my friend, so you better be nice to her."

         "And?" He drummed his fingers on two thin, unmarked folders stacked between them on the Crown Vics seat.

          "And she's not like the women you're used to." Andy rubbed a had across her forehead, moving a shock of red curls. The other hand twitched on the steering wheel as she shut off the engine. "Mei won't be a sucker for your good looks."

           "And?"He gave the unmarked folders another meaningful tap.

            She sighed. "All right,all right. I think she'll be able to help on the Latch killing case."

             Crook groaned. "That's not our case Andy."

              "But maybe Anna can tell us more about the knife wounds on the boy's body. Those blade marks the M.E. can't identify, and the freaky symbols all over the floor too."

             Cabs, buses and cars whizzed by on the crammed street, sending plumes of exhaust into the morning air. Crook glared at the bits of smoke as they drifted over the sidewalk.

         A psychic. Great. Rats and roaches are more useful. 

         He'd never met a real psychic, but that didn't mean real psychics didn't exist. Crook avoided anyone who claimed any kind of mystic title, anyone who might have the slightest bit of enhanced perception and he advertised his sarcasm as often as possible so the NYPD wouldn't stuff a psychic down his throat. 

          No mediums, no seers. No sensitives. 

          I don't need that kind of risk.

          But here he was, taking that risk because of Andy. He couldn't say no to the woman. Well, actually, Andy didn't hear the word no, didn't understand the concept of no. Maybe it was her southern upbringing, or maybe she was just crazy and he had to humour her. Most of the time he wasn't sure. Next to his own solve rate, Andy had the BEST record in New York's low profile Occult Crimes Unit. So, crazy or not, it was usually a good idea to listen to her. 

             Crook sucked air through his teeth in frustration."The FBI came up empty with the blade marks and the symbols. How can Anna Mei possibly oneup the federal databases?"

            When Andy didn't respond, he added,"The OCU can't touch the murder of a senator's kid -especially a senator who almost ran for presidency last election. The press would murder us."

            Andy glared over her sunglasses. "It's not out yet. The press is busy covering the break in at the Met. That Russian history exhibit that got torn apart- Volgograd or something like that? And get over yourself Crook. Mei might help us find the child-killer while the trail's still red hot. Who cares if we have to stay off the grid and give credit to homicide?"

             "She's a psychic and you're just not telling me,"he grumbled as he got out. Cool morning air chilled the sudden sweat on his face. While Andy fumbled with the folders and keys, Crook stretched and gazed across the sidewalk, over the stone wall surrounding Central park.

        Autumn hues shimmered in the fresh, early sunlight. He stared at the reds, yellows and greens, stilling his mind 

and turning lose his formidable senses. Time seemed go slow, but Crook knew it was only his thoughts getting faster, speeding out of normal human rhythms.

       His nostrils flared at the city smells, morning smells, park smells and building smells. The pungent sweat of the horse hitched to a nearby hansom cab made his eyes water. Light and colour forced him into a squint, and his ears wanted to shrink from the cacophony of traffic and birds, footsteps and talking. He could taste car exhaust in his tongue, feel the rush of passing cars and crowds and the wind on his face. New York. The Upper East Side at rush hour,yes, but nothing unusual. No twist of reality. No scent out of place, at least not in the few miles he could sense most clearly. 

      Fighting to keep his balance and his sanity in the onrush of sensory information, Crook turned to face Andy. To his unleashed perceptions, she seemed to be moving at onequarter speed, extending the remote to arm the sedan's locks.

       Crook looked past Andy, to the brownstone matching the number Andy had given him- the place where Anna Mei lived. Five steps up to the front door. Three floors. White curtains.

      Odd, but the energy around the building felt flat-or rather, dense. Thick, like the bark of an ancient tree. Even more odd was the fact that he couldn't see through those white curtains, even though they appeared to be lace. He narrowed his eyes and increased his focus, but he still couldn't see through the openings in the lace.