Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

“I might. Emily Richland proved valuable once before; that’s all I’m saying.” She caught herself huffing from anger. “Your call, Sergeant.”

Boldt conceded. “We investigate every lead.” He sat back. “You’re absolutely right. Maybe she has something.”

“Try to think of her as a snitch, not a psychic,” she suggested.

“She has visions?”

“Don’t look at it that way. Define it in terms that are acceptable to you.”

“A snitch,” he said, testing it.

“Leave it to me,” she recommended.

Lou Boldt nodded. “Good idea,” he said.

Emily Richland did not answer her phone, but the recorded message said she was open for readings. Daphne tried again the following day, at ten in the morning. Again the machine answered. That second time, she wrote down the address given in the recording. She rode the elevator down to Homicide and marched up to Boldt’s cubicle, aware of the mountain she was attempting to climb.

She said, “How much did we pay Richland last time?”

Boldt’s khakis were clean, she noted. His shirt was fresh and his shoes polished.

“Two, two-fifty I think it was.”

“I need authorization to offer her that same amount.”

Boldt appeared paralyzed. “You’re going out there,” he stated.

“Yes, I am. And if I have to pay her, I will.”

“Shoswitz will blow a gasket.”

“I’m not asking Shoswitz, I’m asking you.”

“You know what they say around the bull pen?” he inquired rhetorically, not allowing her to answer, even had she had a comeback, which she did not. “That I can’t refuse you anything.”

“Oh, but you do . They don’t know the details.”

“List her as a snitch in the requisition,” he instructed. It was a small compromise, easy for her to live with. It was as good as an approval. She had the finances necessary to pay Emily Richland. She felt ecstatic.

“And don’t look so smug,” he added.

“Is that an order?” she asked, directly reminding Boldt that she outranked him.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Boldt quipped.

“Oh, I am. I definitely am.”

Daphne knocked loudly on the door to the purple house. Hearing just how loudly and impatiently she knocked, she questioned whether or not she had the open mind necessary for the ruse she intended. A majority of psychics were nothing more than clever con artists. Dial a 900 number, and through the miracle of caller ID and on-line computerized credit information, the so-called psychic on the other end knew more about you-income, marital status, spending habits, the car you drove, the house you owned, the catalogs you shopped-than could possibly be used in a single session. Though she was loath to admit it to Boldt, she didn’t trust any of them, not even Emily Richland. There was no telling what connection Emily might have to the arsons. She lived in a low-rent neighborhood and made her living telling lies. She would have to prove herself one hell of a mind reader to convince Daphne otherwise.

Daphne’s mission was multilayered: to reverse roles, tell lies of her own, and subtly interview Emily Richland in an effort to test the woman’s authenticity; to attempt to trap the woman into admitting some connection-professional or personal-with the arsons or the arsonist; to offer to pay the woman for information, but only as a last resort.

The door opened.

The woman’s long dark hair was pulled back, stretching the skin of a freckled face that took ten or more years off her forty. Her eyes were a haunting blue under too much mascara. She wore a thrift-store black velvet gown that emphasized her breasts even though the rest of the dress appeared a size too large, and was cinched tightly around her narrow waist by a blue-and-white beaded Indian belt. A string of dime store pearls hung around her neck, and a pair of earrings featured black-and-white photographs of Elvis. Her smile was radiant and yet mysterious-surprisingly natural; her eyes, probing and curious.

“Welcome.”

“Do you have time?” Daphne feigned embarrassment, awkwardness.

“Please,” Emily said, gesturing inside. She wore peach nail polish with silver-blue glitter. She was wearing ballerina slippers with black ribbon bows and worn toes, as if she had been on point. “I’m Emily.” She made no more small talk. She led Daphne to an upholstered chair with a green chenille slipcover that faced a small unadorned table with a pack of thumb-worn tarot cards waiting in one corner and a giant stump of a candle that might take years to burn itself out. There were nudes painted on the wall.

Daphne saw the woman’s hand gently brush the edge of the table as she took her seat. It was a clever, practiced move. The lights dimmed and established themselves at the level of the candle that the woman lit next, using a yellow Bic lighter. The room then smelled faintly of incense, reminding Daphne of her radical years at college.

“You have a question that needs answering,” the woman stated. She studied her. “You’re having trouble with a man.”

Daphne felt her heart in her throat all of a sudden. How on earth could she know about the problems with Owen? Then she realized that on entering the neighborhood she had spun her engagement ring around so that Owen’s absurdly sized engagement diamond was hidden under her finger, not showing on top. The good ones can read a subtle change in skin tone, voice inflection, body language, she reminded herself. Daphne had studied paranormal phenomena in her undergraduate years. For any psychologist with an open mind, it was a fascinating area.

She felt her face flush, at which point there was no sense dodging the question. “Yes, a little bit of trouble,” she admitted, “but that’s not why I’ve come.”

“Something to do with work,” Emily said, eyes searching Daphne’s left to right, left to right. Slightly hypnotic. “You’re a doctor,” the woman speculated, then shook her head no. “Something close, but that’s not it. A paramedic maybe … no … not a nurse. Something medical. Am I close?”

Daphne shifted uncomfortably in the chair, then chastised herself for giving herself away so easily. Concentrate! she demanded of herself. The woman was good. Better than expected. She worked fast. Calm voice. Penetrating eyes. She missed nothing. She was staring at Daphne’s neck, probably counting my pulse, the policewoman thought. Or curious about the long scar there. Focus!

“My fiance’s a doctor”-Daphne lied convincingly-“of economics, not medicine. Can’t put a Band-Aid on his own finger,” she said, amused. “But he’s rich as Croesus,” she included, completing the picture. “But no, it’s not about work, not about him.” She prepared her fiction carefully. “I came to you because of a dream I had. Have you ever dealt with a person’s dreams?” She knew the weight psychics put in such things.

“Dreams can be windows, my dear. Into the past, the future. Do you want to tell me about the dream, or should I tell you a little about you first? You’re not a believer, are you. It’s all right, you know. I mean, not trusting in the powers. They aren’t my powers, you understand. Not mine at all. It’s important to me that you understand. I’m not channeling, I don’t mean that. I’m not a channeler, not a conduit. But I do see: the past, the future. I see wonderful things; I see terrifying things. I can’t help what I see, so I may not please you with what I tell you, but I’ll tell you what I see.” She spoke quickly but without a sense of urgency, so it came off as a smooth monologue that one wouldn’t want to interrupt. Her voice was musical and lilting, her eyes calming and warm. “You’re someone who’s well prepared. You think out potential problems in advance. You’re neat. You keep a clean house and you pride yourself on the little details. You’re angry at your fiance, but it’s not about another woman-a young girl, perhaps.”