Urban Shaman

CHAPTER 19

I stopped by The Missing O on the way and got not only an apple fritter, but also a four-man police escort, headed up by Bruce, to the station. “It hasn’t been that long,” I pointed out. “I’m pretty sure I can still find my own way in.”

Bruce grinned and put his hand on top of my head, pushing me into a slump. I was ushered past Morrison’s office in a little herd of grinning cops.

“You’re going to get in trouble.” The other three peeled off, leaving me walking down the hall toward Missing Persons with Bruce.

“My car really needs a tune-up.” Bruce shrugged. I laughed. “You could set up your own cottage industry, Joanie. Become the department’s personal mechanic. It’d beat foot patrol.”

“In exchange for meals?” I asked, amused. “I still need to pay rent, Bruce.”

“Well, you don’t have to take it out in trade. You could, y’know. Charge.”

“Right, except for you, ‘cuz Elise makes awesome tamales, and except for Billy, because he and Melinda bring me clothes shopping, and except for—”

“All right, all right.” Bruce laughed, waving a hand. “I get your point.”

“And then the guys who aren’t taking it out in trade get jealous,” I went on, feeling ridiculously cheerful, “and next thing I know the Better Business Bureau busts me—”

“Very alliterate,” Bruce interrupted approvingly.

“Thanks. And then I’m on the wrong side of your bars here and not only do your cars break down horribly, but I get all gray and long in the tooth and none of you will sneak me doughnuts in the morning. It’d be a terrible tragedy, Bruce, I’m telling you.”

He laughed. “You forgot fat. If we’re sneaking you all those doughnuts, you’d not only get long in the tooth and gray, but fat. We don’t exactly have exercise equipment in the cells.”

“I said you wouldn’t bring me doughnuts, but so what, now you’re bringing doughnuts but not letting me out for my morning constitutional? Man, you think you’ve got friends, and look what happens.”

Bruce pulled the Missing Persons’ office door open and leaned heavily on the knob, looking at me. “You’re in a good mood this morning.”

“What you mean is, I’m remarkably chipper for someone who got switched to a job she never wanted and then suspended, and who’s been running all over hell and breakfast getting herself involved in murder cases, right?” I leaned in the door frame and lifted my eyebrows at him.

He pursed his lips. “Obviously that’s not how I would have put it, but yeah, that’s about what I mean. Morrison was already in when I got here this morning. Came out to tell me not to let you in, then went back into his office. He’s wearing the same clothes he was yesterday.”

I clucked my tongue to mask a sudden seizure of guilt. “I told him he should still be letting his mother dress him. Why’d you sneak me by him if he said not to let me in?”

Bruce held up three fingers in a Scout’s oath. “I never saw her, Captain. She must’ve come by while I was in the bathroom.” He blinked, wide-eyed and innocent.

I laughed. “The other guys gonna say the same thing?”

“What other guys?”

“You’re a doll, Bruce. If Elise weren’t scary, I’d give you a kiss for being such a good guy.”

Bruce held up a hand at a fraction over five feet and raised his eyebrows. “Elise? This Elise? Little Elise?”

“Little is hardly synonymous with sweet-tempered. She’d beat me up.”

“Nah. You could just put a hand on her forehead and lean away. She wouldn’t be able to touch you.” Bruce fell silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You don’t, ah. Have to repeat that.”

I giggled. “If I ever need to blackmail you, I’ll use that.”

“You would, too.” Bruce smiled, then sobered. “Really, Joanie. You doing okay?”

“Aside from the murder, mayhem, inexplicable activities and new job description, I’m perfectly fine.” I saw the worry in his eyes and smiled. “I’m all right,” I said a little more gently. “A little giddy on caffeine and too little sleep this morning, and I’ve got an awful lot to do today.”

Bruce nodded. “Still coming over for dinner tomorrow?”

Oh, God. I’d forgotten. “Yeah, but call me before you leave work, or I’ll probably sleep through it. It’s gonna be a late night.” I just couldn’t fathom being lucky enough to wrap this whole mess up by noon. It was a nice thought, though.

“All right.” Bruce tilted his head at the main office. “You might want to pull a fire alarm instead of risking Morrison on your way back out. He really doesn’t want you to be here.”

“I know. But there’s stuff I need to do.” I ducked into the Missing Persons’ office.

Even Morrison’s desk wasn’t quite the picture of efficient chaos that the MPO was. Every spare inch was covered in photographs and drawings, sometimes years’ worth. Active cases were out on desks, and heavy dark gray steel cabinets lined most of the walls, so overstuffed they looked like caricatures.

For some reason, I found the MPO to be the most depressing branch of the department. It had a desperation to it, especially in the walls of missing children, that none of the other departments had, not even homicide. It wasn’t that homicide was lacking the desperation, but it was filled with other things, too. Anger, betrayal, passion. Missing Persons was bleak.

I stood in the doorway and realized that I could feel that desolation far more deeply than I ever had before. This was a good place for the new me to go if I ever decided I needed just a little push over the edge toward suicide.

“You coming or going, Joanne? Either way, make up your mind. You’re letting a draft in.” The woman who appeared from around the corner was dark-haired and attractive in a no-nonsense way.

“Hi, Jen. I was looking for you.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” She came forward to shake my hand. Jennifer Gonzalez always shook hands when someone came into a room. For the first time I wondered if it gave her a sense about the person she couldn’t get from just looking at him.

“You psychic, Jen?” I asked. Her eyebrows rose.

“Don’t have to be psychic to know you got suspended. It’s all anybody’s been talking about since yesterday morning.”

“Well, it’s good to know I don’t even have to be here to destroy productivity. Morrison must be so pleased.”

“Morrison’s pretty shook up, especially with the high school yesterday. Give him a break, maybe.” Jen hitched one hip up onto a desk. “Whatcha got for me?”

“A semi-missing person.” I hesitated. “My life’s gotten a little weird this week, Jen…”

She pointed two fingers at my right cheek. “So I’ve heard. They’re taking bets on whether you’ve been assigned to visit the shrink yet.”

“Heh. Not yet.”

“Good, that’s where I put my money. All right, so who’s missing? I’ll trust it’s not you, missing your mind.” Jen’s eyes sparkled, just a hint of laughter. I smiled lopsidedly.

“I’m pretty sure I am, but I’m not looking for it right now.” I unfolded the enlargement I’d made of the missing Rider and handed it to her.

“This is a painting, Joanne.”

“That stunning grasp of the obvious is why they pay you the big bucks, right?” I leaned against another desk. “The kid on the gold horse is the one who’s missing.” I held my breath for a few seconds. “The problem is, I’m not sure if he’s real.”

“Well, he’s a she. Not that it’ll help if she isn’t real, but at least you’ll be looking in the right half of the population.” Jen handed the printout back to me, her eyebrows lifted in amused challenge.

I stared at her, then took the paper to stare at it. “How can you tell it’s a she?”

“Why do you think it’s a he? Look.” Jen leaned over the page and traced the line of the kid’s shoulders, then a fold in the fabric of his shirt. “It’s a teenager. The collarbone and shoulder are awfully delicate, even for a skinny boy. And her biceps are pressed in to make the line of the chest smooth on the outside, but the fabric’s filled out and wrinkles here like there’s flesh there. A boy skinny enough for that shoulder breadth almost certainly wouldn’t have anything like enough muscle mass to fill out the shirt that way, even if there wasn’t enough shadow below to indicate breasts. It’s an androgynous kid, but it’s a girl. When was this painted?”

I gaped at her and the painting, back and forth. Now that she’d pointed out the error of my ways, I could see the feminine traits, but left to my own devices, I’d have been looking for a boy until doomsday. “Uh.” I lifted my eyebrows, trying to remember. “I think it had a copyright date of last year.”

“All right. Assuming this is based on a real person, which, frankly, is a hell of an assumption, Joanne—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “But it’s all I’ve got to go on.”

Jen nodded. “Taking that assumption as writ, you’re looking for a girl somewhere between twelve and fifteen, maybe slightly older, probably not much younger. Now, also assuming she has a real life from which she is missing, when would she have gone missing?”

I shook my head. “I’m guessing any time from around the solstice up till…today. I don’t know.”

Jen studied me. “You’re not making this easy, Joanne. Can you tell me why you’re not sure this girl is even real?”

I wrinkled up my face, then dropped my chin to my chest. It took more than a minute to nerve myself up to talking again. “The other visible riders in the painting are real. Based on real people, I mean. But they’re not…” The only person I’d said this to so far, at least in a straight-forward fashion, was Billy. I’d snapped at Morrison, but I never expected him to believe me. I discovered that I desperately wanted Jen to believe me, but I knew in her position I never would have. “They’re not human,” I said very quietly.

Jen was silent. I stuck my jaw out, setting my teeth together, then forced myself to look up at her. She had an expression of sympathy that was worse than outright mockery. “Look, I’m really not crazy—”

She held up a hand, then took the paper back. “I’ll put out a bulletin to see if anyone matching the description has gone missing in the past two weeks. Are the eye and hair color accurate?”

I took a breath. “The coloring for other people in the painting is dead on, so I think hers is, too. So yeah.”

“Okay.” Jen glanced at the clock. “It’ll probably be ten or so before I get anything back, maybe even later. Want to meet me for coffee around then?”

I managed a weak smile. “Thus getting me out of here before Morrison sees me? Yeah. Around the corner?”

Jen nodded. “Yeah. Make it ten-thirty. Do you have a cell phone?”

I shook my head. “I’ll call around ten-fifteen to make sure we’re still on.”

“Okay. See you in a couple of hours.” Jen picked up a sketchpad from a desk and went back around the corner. I stood where I was for a minute, pressing my lips together. I wanted to ask why she believed me, but I was afraid she’d say she didn’t. I decided I’d rather not know I was being humored, and edged to the door, cautiously tugging it open. Would skulking around draw attention, or should I brazen it out and try to slip past Morrison that way?

Having worked myself up into a fine dither, I opened the door farther and peeked out.

“You’re causing a draft!” Jen shouted a few seconds later. Guilty, I slipped into the hall and closed the door behind me.

Rather anticlimactically, I made it all the way to the garage entrance—the back way in—without encountering the Dread Morrison, whom I’d worked up as being nearly as bad as Cernunnos, by now. Nearly. Despite not knowing anything about cars, Morrison had never stuffed a sword into my ribs, and that had to count for something.

“Here, hey, can I help you?” A blond guy a couple years older than I was stood up from behind a car, a tire iron held behind his shoulders like Bo’s baseball bat. I froze, then scowled.

“Did they hire you about three months ago?”

“Sure did. If you’re here about the computer loan, I swear the check’s in the mail.”

I looked down at myself. I never thought I looked like a bill collector before. Did bill collectors wear jeans and sweaters on the job? Maybe they did. “Actually,” I said to my feet, and looked up again, “I’m a mechanic.”

There was a phone in the garage I worked at in college that whoever was closest was supposed to answer. Whenever I did, the person on the other end would always ask to speak to a mechanic. Whenever I said I was one, there was always a long deadly silence, no matter if the caller was male or female. The blond guy produced the same kind of long deadly silence. I seriously considered kicking him. “No,” I said, “really. They gave you my job.”

His eyes widened. “You’re Joanie?”

Wasn’t that nice? They talked about me enough for him to know my name. “I’m Joanie,” I agreed. “You’re…?”

“Incompetent, compared to you, I guess. Do me a favor, won’t you, and walk on water. The guys’ve been swearing you can do it.”

Somehow, I didn’t think I had a new friend here. “Only at Easter. Sorry if they’ve been giving you a rough time.”

He gave me an unfriendly look. “It got worse a couple days ago. When you got back.”

“Sorry,” I repeated. “I think they thought I was like their mascot or something. The Girl Mechanic.” He was good-looking, in a tall, blond, broad-shouldered, Thor-like way. If you like that type. Which I did. And we obviously already knew we had cars in common. It was too bad he’d set out to dislike me. “Is anybody else around?”

“They went for coffee.”

“You don’t like coffee?”

“I don’t like crowds.”

He was a real charmer. Kind of like a pit viper. “Right,” I said. “And two’s a crowd. I’ll just get out of your hair.” His long, thick, blond, wavy hair. I needed another cold shower. I glanced at the car he was working on as I went by, and cleared my throat. “That’s Mark Rodriguez’s car. Check the axle alignment. I never saw anybody yank more wheels out of whack than Rodriguez.” What the hell, Thor was determined to dislike me anyway. He and Morrison could have a nice bitchfest about me someday. “Brakes probably need work, too. He’s got a lead foot for braking.”

Thor gave me a look over the top of the car. “He brought it down for brake work,” he admitted. I felt just a little smug. “Hang on,” he said. I looked back over my shoulder. He took a hand off his tire iron and spread his fingers at the car. “Aren’t you gonna show me your stuff?”

“Never on the first date, mister.” Pleased with myself, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and went out whistling.

It was probably inevitable that Morrison was at the street corner. He opened his mouth and I held up a hand. “Go talk to your boy Thor in the garage,” I said. “He doesn’t like me either.” I stepped around him and got far enough down the street that I thought I was actually going to get away with it before he caught up with me.

“I’m addicted to the doughnuts, Morrison,” I interjected into his next indrawn breath. “Can’t help myself, there’s just nowhere else in the city that makes them quite like The Missing O. Swear to God, that’s all I’m here for. A nice apple fritter.” Maybe I could keep this up and just not let him get a word in edgewise. It sounded like a good plan to me.

“I’ll buy you one,” he offered with a tight smile. I crinkled up my face. Not only had my nefarious plan not worked, but apple fritters were filling and I’d already eaten one.

On the other hand, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for Morrison to spend money on me, even if it was only a dollar twenty-nine. “You talked me into it. Be careful, though. People will talk.” Bruce was right. I was in a good mood. If I closed my eyes and concentrated a little, I could feel the city’s people, millions of lives wrapped up in their own quick paces. I could affect them if I chose to.

I could also walk right out into traffic. Morrison’s big hand closed on my shoulder and hauled me back from the curb. My eyes snapped open and I stared up at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” we both barked, and then neither of us would give in to the little surge of laughter the doubly demanded question deserved.

“I’ve known geniuses who couldn’t be trusted to keep their heads from the clouds long enough to cross a street, Walker. Are you gonna turn into one of those?”

“Why, Morrison.” I grinned after all. “Are you saying you think I’m a genius?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He let go of my shoulder and crossed the street. I followed, trying not to give in to the urge to do a little jig. Even if I did get killed, I’d gotten the better of Morrison three or four times inside of a day. It seemed like a pretty good legacy, just then.

The Missing O was incredibly busy, the whole neighborhood stopping by for their morning cuppa joe. The garage crew was there, so I made Morrison stand in line while I said hello and collected hugs. They departed en masse when Morrison returned with not only an apple fritter, but a hot chocolate for me, too. “Why are you being nice to me?” I asked suspiciously. I took a bite of the fritter, though. It seemed unlikely that he’d gotten the barrista to poison it.

“I didn’t want to deal with the paperwork I’d have had to fill out if you’d walked into traffic.” He sat down. “Sit.”

I sat. He’d just bought me breakfast, after all. “Glad to know you’re only being self-serving. For a second there I thought you might be concerned. What do you want, Morrison?”

“People walking out into traffic does concern me. What do you want?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Love, justice and world peace. But I’ll settle for solving a murder.”

“You’re sus—”

“Suspended. Yes. We’ve been over that. What’s your point?”

“I could fire you for insubordination.”

“Fine. Fire me. I’ll go get Henrietta Potter to hire me as a private investigator.” That wasn’t a bad idea, now that I thought of it.

Morrison set his coffee cup down and held up a thick finger. “One,” he said, “you don’t have a P.I. license. Two.” He held up another finger. “You don’t know much about investigating anyway. Three, this is personal for you. Personal gets in the way of impartiality. And four, you irritate me.”

I held up four of my own fingers, then folded them down and closed my thumb over them, jabbing at my own jaw. “And five, on general principles?” I asked. Morrison picked up his coffee again, almost smiling.

“Don’t tempt me. What were you doing at the station?”

“Why do I bug you so much?” This was probably not the time to get into it, but I was suddenly incredibly curious. Morrison arched his eyebrows. “No, really,” I said. “I mean, I know we got off to a bad start, although I still can’t believe you didn’t know a Mustang from a Corvette—”

“I was never into cars.”

“Obviously. What were you in to?”

Morrison stared at me over the edge of his coffee cup, then put it back down. “Being a cop.”

“What, when you were like nine? Fifteen? You wanted to be a cop, not to drive fast cars and pick up girls?” I took an incredulous bite of the apple fritter.

“Yeah. I never wanted to be anything but a cop. And that, Walker, is why you irritate me.” Morrison looked like he was at war with his own body language, trying to force himself to relax back into his seat while the intense low pitch of his voice drove him to lean forward, speaking to me sharply.

“You fell into a job I spent my whole life working for. You irritate me because I think being a police officer is a calling and a solemn occupation and you’re carrying a badge without it meaning a damned thing to you. You hang out with my officers in your off time, being just that damned cool, an attractive woman who talks cars and drinks beer and arm wrestles. None of them give a damn that you were in the top third of your class at the academy and that you’re wasting your skills in Motor Pool playing with engines. But it bugs the hell out of me. That is why you irritate me.”

I gawped at him. Morrison exhaled loudly and looked away. “What were you doing at the station?”

Thank God he’d said something else. I might’ve gawked at him the rest of the day, unable to speak. Attractive? Morrison thought I was attractive? Morrison knew where I’d graduated in my class? Christ, I usually played that down. He had to have looked it up.

Morrison thought I wasn’t, for God’s sake, living up to my potential?

I swallowed the impulse to apologize for disappointing him. “How do you know I was at the station?” It was a stupid question, but it was marginally better than apologizing.

Morrison just looked at me. I shrugged, took a sip of my hot chocolate, and nearly choked. It was mint-flavored and topped with whipped cream, the way I like it. It didn’t go at all well with apple fritters, but to the best of my recollection, I’d never once ordered hot chocolate with mint while Morrison was around. I stared at the cup, then stared at Morrison, while he looked almost perfectly bland. I bit down on rabid curiosity and refused to ask, taking another sip of chocolate instead, just like he hadn’t completely outmaneuvered me. Twice.

“I was seeing if anyone had filed a missing persons report,” I said when I put the cup down. I couldn’t think of anything to tell him but the truth. Besides, Jackson had told me I wasn’t a very good liar. If a dead man could see through my lies, there was no way I could fool Morrison. “I don’t think anything’s going to come of it, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Who’s missing?”

“A kid. A girl. Maybe. I mean.” I closed my eyes. Here I went again. “She might be missing, if she’s…real.”

When I opened my eyes Morrison was looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “You think someone who might not be real is missing,” he said in disbelief. I cringed.

“I know she’s real. I don’t know if she’s got a day-to-day ordinary life to be missing from.” One like I’d had until the beginning of the week. I ran my fingers over the scar on my cheek, then rubbed the heel of my hand against my breastbone. I wondered if the nervous hollow feeling there would ever go away. Morrison watched me.

“That diner had security cameras, did you know that?”

I looked up and shook my head, suddenly grateful for the hot chocolate. I took a sip before getting up the courage to ask, “And?” I had the hideous feeling the tapes had all been wiped blank, or had recorded static. It would just figure.

“I watched the tape this morning. Right from you and your friends walking in to you coming back from the dead. I didn’t believe you until then.”

“You believe me now?” My voice sounded very small and hopeful to my own ears.

Morrison took another sip of his coffee. “You should have a hole in you.”

“You want I should flash you and show you that I don’t?”

To my surprise, Morrison grinned. “Maybe another time.” I gaped again. I didn’t know Morrison knew how to flirt. Particularly with me. “I didn’t believe your friend Mrs. Potter, either.”

“Despite being faced with direct evidence? You’re a contrary bastard, Morrison.”

“Indirect evidence. I didn’t see it happen, and the hospital security tapes show you flopping over her and then getting up. And then Mrs. Potter getting up a few minutes later.”

“C’mon, Morrison, how direct do you want?” I was arguing for something I considered impossible three days earlier. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

“It’s piling up in your favor.” Morrison took another sip of coffee, then put the cup down. “Which is why I’m considering the possibility that you might be of some use after all.”

That, somehow, didn’t sound like something I really wanted to hear. A cold little ball of dread formed in my stomach and started sending tendrils out through my guts. “What happened?”

Morrison took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Henrietta Potter was murdered this morning.”