Her sweet expression Houdinied into thin air. “I don’t think you two would work out that way.”
“Oh, right, on account of you guys being married and all.”
“That’s one take on it, yes.”
Married people were so possessive.
That was a little over a month ago, and she’d been right. We became friends the moment we met.
“Can I talk to you a minute?” I asked him. As usual, he wore his short brown hair slicked down and kept his mustache thick and well groomed. I couldn’t decide if he was a product of the eighties or just really nerdy.
And, just as Cookie had predicted, he’d taken to me almost as well as she had. I figured he’d felt sorry for the amnesiac the way you do for a carnival attraction. But whatever the reason, he seemed to genuinely like me. There was a shortage of that today.
“Please.” He folded the paper he was reading and gestured for me to sit down.
“Thanks.” After putting the carafe on the next table, I sat across from him.
“What’s up, pumpkin?”
I almost giggled, the term of endearment a welcome respite from the maddening crowd. “I kind of have a situation, and I’m not sure who to talk to about it. I’m hoping you might be able to point me in the right direction.”
“Oh.” He squared his shoulders. “What kind of a situation? Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“No. No, I’m fine.” His concern made me warm and mushy inside. “It’s more of a legal thing, and I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to get Cookie involved, so —”
“A legal thing, how?”
I didn’t know how much to tell him. I couldn’t put Mr. Vandenberg or his family in danger. Then again, they were already in danger. Serious danger, from what I could tell. “Okay, what if, hypothetically, I knew about a man who was possibly being held hostage against his will. Along with his entire family.”
His pulse sped up, but just barely. He’d probably seen it all. Probably had amnesiacs filing preposterous reports all the time. “Do you know of such a person?” he asked, his tone taking on a sharp edge.
“What? Pfft. No. Maybe. I don’t think so. No. Absolutely not.” I drew in a deep breath. “I might.”
“Then you need to report it to the police.”
“I know. I really do. It’s just – I’m worried that if I go to the police and they rush over there with sirens blaring, my friend will get hurt. Or even if dispatch sends a uniform to check it out, the hostage takers will get spooked and kill him. Kill his entire family.”
He nodded, beginning to understand what I was getting at. Flooded with relief, I waited as Bobert took out a notepad and pen. Once a detective, always a detective.
Unfortunately, Cookie walked up. “And just what are you two talking about?” she asked as she scooted into the booth beside her husband. She gave him a quick peck.
When I hesitated, it took him a moment to figure out why. “Oh, it’s okay, hon. Cookie helps us with cases all the time.”
“Us?”
“Cases?” Cookie asked, surprised. “We have a case?” Bobert gave her shoulders a squeeze, and they exchanged a pointed glance. A little too pointed. She nodded after a moment. Cleared her throat. Started over. “Yes. Yes, I do help with cases. It’s more of a hobby, really.”
Bobert nodded, too, and added his own “Yes, a hobby.”
I waited for them to elaborate, but they just stared at me, their smiles forced. They did that sometimes.
“And who is ‘us’?”
Cookie raised her brows at her husband. “Well, that’s… It’s —”
“The Albuquerque Police Department,” Bobert cut in, relief flooding him. For a detective, he wasn’t the best liar I’d ever met.
“Cookie helps the Albuquerque Police Department with cases?”
Bobert’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. Yes, she does.”
“Yes, I do.” She continued to nod. Patted Bobert’s hand. Glanced out the window. “Yes, indeedy.”
Oddly enough, they weren’t lying. They just weren’t telling me everything. I got the feeling, as I did often from those two, that they were leaving out the best part. I mean, what did Cookie bring to the table? What could she do to help the police?
Then it hit me, and my entire perception of her changed in an instant.
Cookie was psychic!
It was the only explanation. Okay, probably not the only one, but it made perfect sense. And she certainly looked like a psychic. Or how I imagined a psychic might look. She had spiky black hair and sparkly blue eyes. She wore flowing, brightly colored clothes that never quite matched. And she added a little extra vertical lift to the concept of flighty.
Oh, yeah. She was psychic. This rocked so hard.
“Okay, well, if you don’t mind,” I said, pretending I didn’t know the truth. Then again, she was psychic. Would she know that I knew? I told Bobert and Cookie about the hypothetical man and his hypothetical family. She didn’t fall for it. Damn her and her psychic abilities. I’d have to watch what I said around her.
No!
I’d have to watch what I thought around her. Crap, this was going to be hard.
“What makes you think this man is being held hostage?” Bobert asked.
I didn’t know how much to tell him. He was still a cop. Would he go to the police anyway? I couldn’t risk it, not until I knew more.
“I don’t, really. It’s just a hunch,” I said, ashamed I couldn’t elaborate. But I didn’t want to end up in a padded cell when I mentioned how I could feel Mr. V’s pain. His fear. “I don’t have anything concrete. Yet.”
“Do you know where the family is being held?”
That was the million-dollar question and next on my list of things to check out. Cookie and I got off at three. I planned on finding out where Mr. Vandenberg lived and checking out his house. Incognito style, of course. If the family was there, I could go to whomever Bobert suggested and tell them everything I knew. I could tell for certain if it was a hostage situation or not.
“I don’t know that either,” I told him. “Can you find out who I’d talk to? Who would treat this with discretion?”
He let out a lengthy sigh and sat back. “It’s going to be hard going to the authorities without a plausible explanation as to how you came by this information. Trust me. I’ve been down this road before.”
Of course he had. How could he tell others about his wife’s psychic visions? He’d have to make something up, like maybe he got the information via an anonymous tip or something equally as lame.
I wondered if that was how they’d met. She’d walked into his office with a tip, tears glistening like the finest ice in her baby blues as she begged for his help. He razzed her. Called her a crazy dame. Told her to beat it and not to come back, but the big palooka just couldn’t get her out of his head. He’d fallen for that cat’s pajamas, and how. Twenty-four hours and three bottles of shine later, he was rapping his knuckles on any door he could find, searching for the dish who’d stolen his ticker, vowing to get handcuffed to the doll if it was the last thing he did.
It could happen.