They separated. Zach circled around to the left, Mick to the right. They would meet in front of the cathedral. Zach scanned the faces of the artists, psychics, and mimes as he passed.
The square was busy and most didn’t notice him. But a few looked his way, met his eyes and nodded. As if acknowledging a secret they shared. It made his skin crawl.
And then he found her. Just where Gwen’s friends had said she had been that past Saturday.
And simultaneously, she found him. Just as those other few vendors had, she seemed to sense him and turned his way. She looked him dead in the eyes.
Or seemed to. He couldn’t be sure because of the big, dark glasses she wore.
When he started toward her, she stood and quickly gathered together her things. But before she could take a step away from her table, Mick had reached it.
He saw her hold up her shield and gave himself a pat on the back. Maybe he was starting to think like a cop after all.
“My partner, Detective Harris,” Mick said when he joined them at the small table. “We have a few questions for you?”
“Answering questions, cher, it is what I do. Sit.” She motioned to the folding chair. “Let’s see what the cards have to say.”
She drew a deck of tarot cards from a small velvet bag and began to expertly shuffle them. Zach noticed she wore lace gloves.
Dark glasses. Gloves. Part of her schtick, Zach wondered. Or self-protection?
He was betting on the latter.
“We’re looking for a young woman. Name’s Gwen Miller.” Mick held out a photograph.
The woman fumbled the cards. “Haven’t seen her.”
“Could you take a better look?”
She glanced at it again. “Sorry, cher. Maybe I give you a reading instead?”
“Maybe you should take off your sunglasses,” Zach said.
“It won’t make a difference, I’ve never seen her before.”
“That’s strange,” Mick said. “We have three witnesses who say you did a reading for this girl on Saturday. It was her birthday.”
“Your witnesses have me confused with someone else.”
Mick held out her phone with the picture of the psychic with Miller. “I don’t think so.”
Brite Knight stared at the photo, then shrugged. “Maybe I did do a reading for her. So what?”
“Why’d you lie, Ms. Knight?”
“I see a lot of people. They run together in my head.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe what you like.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Same thing I tell everyone: what they want to hear.”
“Not this time.” Zach bent, forcing her to look at him. “Whatever you told her, shook her up.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.”
Mick took over. “Her friends described you as a psycho. Said you recoiled from her. You must remember that.”
The psychic paused. When she spoke again, her heavy Cajun accent was gone. “She, this Gwen Miller, was just one of a hundred people I flag down very day. They run together.”
“She’s missing,” he said.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Of course not.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Take off your sunglasses, please?
“Why?”
“Why not? You trying to hide something?”
She took off the glasses, expression defiant, and looked at them both. Miller’s friends had called her eyes strange, freaky. Instead, they were a dark brown. Nothing special about them.
“You ever wear colored contacts, Ms. Knight?” Mick asked.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“You wearing them now?”
“What if I am?”
Zach leaned in. “You really do have the gift, don’t you? You’re special. Tell us about it.”
She snorted. “You’re more full of shit than I am. I’m nothing special, Detective. This is a job. The outfit, the accent, all of it. A job. I need to make money to keep a roof over my head—”
“I’d like a reading.” Zach took two twenties out of his wallet, tossed them on her table.
She stared at the money, then returned her gaze to his. “Sorry, I’m done for the day.”
“Bullshit, Ms. Knight.”
“Look, all I do is read people. What they’re wearing, how they hold themselves. And I listen. Most tell me what they want to hear.”
“You’re a fake. That’s what you’re saying?”
Zach sensed she hated saying it, that she had to force the words out. “I’m good at what I do. It’s a gift, just not supernatural. It doesn’t hurt anyone. They walk away satisfied.”
“Not always,” Mick said. “We checked your record. Not everyone’s been satisfied.”
Her cheeks flamed red. “Some people are just ugly. They don’t want to be happy.”
“Sometimes you tell them things they don’t want to hear. That’s what happened with Gwen Miller, isn’t it?”
“This is harassment. I told you, I don’t even remember her.”
Zach held out his hand. “Read my palm.”
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her brightly colored, handkerchief skirt.
“Read my palm, and we’ll go.”
She hesitated a moment, then cupped his outstretched hand in hers. He expected a jolt. Of energy, pure emotion.
It didn’t come.
He readied himself for series of images, flashes of memory, something.