“That’s not clear yet,” Zach said. “I’m still working on it.”
For long moments, Major Nichols said nothing. Micki sensed he was trying to keep from going off like a bomb.
“Let me make this clear, Harris. I appreciate your special abilities. I’m on board with this whole Sixer thing. But you’re here to assist us, not the other way around. And our job is to solve crimes and put the criminals responsible in jail. Mick here is lead detective. You follow her lead; you do what she says. Understand?”
“Sure. Got it.”
The major glared at him. “Good. Get the hell out.”
He shifted his attention to her. “You stay.”
The moment the door clicked shut behind Zach, he turned on her. “I’ve no doubt you have a unique perspective on this,” he said. “It’d make my day to hear it.”
“You want perspective?” She popped to her feet. “The man’s a freaking nightmare! How do they expect him to help solve crimes? He’s chasing down feelings. Energy, for God’s sake. What is that?”
She crossed to Nichols’ desk and glared down at him. “I’ve been handed an impossible task—do my job and babysit the magic man. Yeah, I should have stayed at the scene. By leaving, I jeopardized its integrity. But I was also charged with protecting the FBI’s new ‘secret’ weapon. Am I right?”
“You are.”
“Exactly.” She rapped her fists on the desk, then straightened. “He refused to see reason, so I made a judgment call. And if you don’t like it, pull me off this detail. In fact, please pull me off. I’m begging you.”
“Sorry, Detective, not happening. Just do your damnedest to keep him focused. And don’t screw up.” He indicated the door. “Now, get the hell out of here and make sure he’s not off getting himself in trouble.”
Chapter Ten
Monday, July 8
5:35 P.M.
Zach sat at his desk, studying the identification card he’d lifted from Martin Ritchie’s place. Sleight of hand: another of his abilities not-so-other worldly, but extremely convenient.
He’d tucked it into a zip-style plastic evidence bag. This card, this rectangle of plastic coated Teslin, was what had drawn him from the crime scene. The psychic energy that had clung to the hotel key had been nothing compared to what clung to this.
He’d felt it the moment he entered the hotel room. Zach drew his eyebrows together. But what was it?
Black as midnight. Quietly thunderous. He’d felt the reverberations clear to his bones. With it had come an overwhelming feeling of dread.
He didn’t want to feel it again.
Angel Gomez. The birthdate on the card—this past Saturday—put her at eighteen. She looked younger than that. And, oddly, older as well.
Long dark hair, warm-toned skin. Features she hadn’t seemed to have grown into yet. Not hispanic. Middle European. Gypsy, he thought.
What was it about her eyes, he wondered. He narrowed his, studying the photo. Something about them unsettled him. They were dark.
But they weren’t.
How could that be?
Mick, coming from behind.
He nudged the card under the open phone book.
She stopped behind him, glanced over his shoulder. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Not much. I got the list of names from the credit cards and IDs in Marty’s safe. Started following up on those.”
“I appreciate the initiative, Hollywood, but none of those folks killed Ritchie.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense that they would have. Look, Marty lifted those cards without the owners’ knowledge. So—”
“How?”
“I don’t know for sure. Most probably pickpocketed them. There’re other ways, but—”
“What other ways?”
She made a sound of frustration. “That doesn’t matter. What does is, he acquired them anonymously. It happens everyday in New Orleans and in cities all over the world. So it’s highly unlikely one of these people murdered Ritchie.”
“But it’s possible?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“So humor me, Mick. What other ways, besides pickpocketing?”
“Okay.” She settled on the corner of his desk. “A guy like Ritchie, he probably has a network of contacts throughout the Quarter. Bartenders and waiters, valets, bellmen, maybe even hotel maids. They prey on tourists. He gives them a few bucks for each card or driver’s license they lift.”
Zach nodded. “And he makes a few more bucks selling the information.”
“Exactly.”
Zach got all that. But how had Ritchie acquired the Angel Gomez ID?
“Clocks ticking, dude.” She hopped off the desk. “Can we move on?”
“Sure.”
She made a sound of surprise. “Seriously? You’re going along with me on this?”
“You’re lead on this case. Major Nicholas was pretty clear on that.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why do I have a hard time believing your sudden agreeableness?”
“Trust issues?”
He saw her fight not to smile. “F-you, partner. Just for that, I’ll have to subject you to an evening of studying grainy video footage.”