Читать книгу The Death Dealer - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10

Before he even opened his eyes, Joe winced.

His head was pounding.

What in the hell had made him drink so damned much beer? He hadn’t even gone for the hard stuff, which he should have. No, he had just started inhaling the beer because of…

The accident.

It was ridiculous. He’d seen lots of accidents. He should have felt good; a little girl had been saved because of him.

But he didn’t feel good.

He felt unnerved.

Because a dead man had spoken to him.

And things hadn’t gotten any better after that.

A psychic. A self-proclaimed psychic solving the whole damned thing while somehow not solving anything at all.

Lori Star? Like hell. She might as well have called herself Moonbeam.

He went ahead and groaned, thinking that voicing his pain might make him feel a little better. It didn’t.

Hell, no. Because he’d awakened thinking.

And all he could think about was the fact that a dead man had spoken to him, and then, as if that hadn’t been bad enough, the news had dragged a damned psychic out of the woodwork. She knew, she just knew, that the driver of the car had been after Sam Latham.

No, they hadn’t dragged her out of anywhere. She’d come forward, claiming to be eager to help the police.

She couldn’t identify the car, of course. Because it was as if she had been the one driving it. She had been in his would-be head as he—or she—went after Sam Latham’s car. And then she’d finished up with the dramatic revelation someone else would be murdered within days.

Later newscasts had delved into the truth about the woman, but too late for him. Genevieve had looked at him with her huge blue imploring eyes. And he’d known right then that he was on the case.

Though he dreaded it. Dreaded it. And he didn’t know why, other than that it had something to do with that freakin’ psychic.

It had turned out that Lori Star was an aspiring actress, as well as a supposed psychic. No wonder she’d been so good in front of the camera. But there would be those out there convinced that it was no act, that she was right, that the accident had been no accident.

Even if she was right—and he sure as hell didn’t see how she could be—he was sure that all she had done was look at a few facts and take a lucky guess. She was definitely not a psychic. She just wanted her fifteen minutes of television fame.

And he was so angry because…

Because he had known Leslie. And he hadn’t believed in her at first, when she claimed to talk to the dead. But she had been legit.

And this girl sure as hell wasn’t.

He opened his eyes. He wasn’t at home, but he already knew that. He was at Genevieve’s. She hadn’t let him take a cab; she’d insisted he stay on her couch. Lacking both the will and the physical coordination to find a cab willing to go to Brooklyn at that hour, he had shrugged and agreed. And fallen asleep. Or passed out. One or the other.

He’d been doing all right last night, considering what he’d gone through with Leslie and her ability to commune with the dead, until that damned psychic had shown up on television. And then he’d started calling for the beers hard and fast.

Now, of course, he was ashamed of himself. Only cowards drank because they’d been spooked. And what a fool he’d been, besides. As far as talking to a dead man went, there was surely a logical explanation for what had happened. One, maybe the EMT had simply been wrong and Brookfield hadn’t died on impact. Or maybe, as Freud might have suggested, Joe had created the man’s voice as a tool to tell him to look for survivors in the car. There. That made sense—so long as he didn’t think about the fact that his inner voice had known the girl’s name.

And the fact that Lori Star was an annoying fraud seeking the spotlight. Well, hell, that made sense, too. She was just trying to get work.

So here he was, having had way too much to drink, sleeping on Gen’s sofa. It was a nice one, too. Antique, but restuffed and reupholstered. She loved things that were old and had a story. She and Leslie would have been great friends.

The thought made him wince and shut his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, his face lined with tension, she was there.

Gen, not Leslie.

Thank God he was seeing the living, at least.

That caused a moment’s guilt to trickle down his spine. Leslie…I would love to see you. Your face…

But that wasn’t really true. He didn’t want to see ghosts.

No problem. This was Gen in front of him, and she didn’t seem to be judging him for his night of imbibing, even if she probably didn’t understand it.

He didn’t intend to explain.

Let her think that it was because he had been a witness to such an awful accident, or because he could have died when the car blew up.

“Good morning,” she said gravely, handing him a glass and a couple of aspirin.

He looked at her, arching a brow.

“Trust me,” she said. “They work for a hangover.” She shrugged. “And no, I don’t spend my life fighting hangovers. A lot of people thought I’d wind up on drugs or alcohol after the kidnapping, and this was a tip my doctor gave me.”

“Thanks,” he said briefly, swallowing the pills with the glass of water she’d provided.

He didn’t really want to look at Gen. He felt too much like the dregs of humanity to want to face her.

There wasn’t anything not to like about her, of course. Genetics had made her beautiful—Eileen, at forty-plus could still turn heads. Gen had the same perfect features, perfect skin and more-than-perfect build. She had rich auburn hair that looked more lustrous than silk and more wicked than sin. And her eyes…

Just saying they were blue didn’t do them justice. They were the blue of the infinite sky, the blue of the deepest sea. Blue that could hint at darkness, blue that spoke of wisdom, even though she was only twenty-odd years old.

They were eyes that had seen a lot. The child of privilege, she had wanted to help those who hadn’t been born with silver spoons in their mouths. She hadn’t jetted around the globe, hobnobbing with the rich and useless. She had gone to school, gotten a degree and gone into social work.

She had survived for weeks in the underground lair of a psychotic killer.

She was strong. She was…

She was alive because Leslie had taken the bullet meant for her.

He pushed that thought from his mind. Genevieve sure as hell hadn’t wanted that to happen, and he knew it. And Leslie had been gone nearly a year now. He liked to think that she was back with Matt, at last, but he didn’t really believe it. He could have sworn that he had once seen them together on a little rise in the cemetery where they were both buried.

Again, Freud would have helped him out.

He had seen them there because he wanted to see them there.

“You should feel better soon,” Gen told him, breaking into his morose thoughts.

Better than he deserved, she might have said.

But of course, she didn’t.

He leaned back, studying her. She was already up and showered, smelling both fresh and subtly exotic, rich tendrils of her amazing hair curling over the casual black sweater she was wearing over jeans. He noticed her hands—delicate, refined, manicured, but not fussily so; she kept her nails filed and polished, but at a reasonable length. And she wasn’t encrusted with jewels; she wore a simple claddagh ring on her left middle finger, gold studs in her ears and a plain cross around her neck.

She could easily have covered herself in furs and diamonds. Instead, she didn’t even buy designer sunglasses; he knew because she had laughingly told him once that she seemed to lose a pair a week, so it made sense to buy them off the street vendors.

And in fact, she knew the streets.

Once upon a time she hadn’t been regularly recognized. Despite her family’s wealth, she’d kept far from the public eye and worked for a pittance helping to get prostitutes off the streets.

What the hell was not to like about her? he asked himself silently, wondering why the question left him feeling so irritable.

“I’m all right,” he said gruffly.

She grinned, looking away. “Right. Real men don’t get loaded on too much beer.”

He groaned aloud and started to rise.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Look, I know that what you saw must have been really terrible. I can’t even imagine,” she assured him.

Couldn’t she? he wondered.

Dead was dead.

Did it matter if death came with gallons of blood, mangled steel and mangled flesh? Or a neat little bullet hole that left a person looking as if she were at peace, merely sleeping.

She had seen enough, he thought.

And she had somehow risen above it all.

He felt even more like a lout, if that were possible.

“You have every right,” he agreed.

“That woman was a jerk,” she said. “Lori Star? I doubt it. I don’t know where she was getting her information, but I’m sure she’s not in touch with helpful spirits or anything like that.”

The way Genevieve looked at him, he knew that she was thinking about Leslie, too. She had known that her kidnapper had been determined to kill Leslie; she’d been at the top of his list.

Because Leslie had known things. She had seen things. He wasn’t certain that psychic was the word to describe her, but whatever she’d been, she’d been for real.

He waved a hand in the air. “Hey, I was a horse’s ass last night, and it was inexcusable,” he said.

“No, once you weren’t so angry, you were kind of cute.”

Kind of cute? Great. Just what he’d always wanted to be. A kind-of-cute drunk.

“Well, thanks for your forgiveness. And your couch.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I need to get going.”

“Joe, there’s a meeting tonight,” she informed him, her eyes somber.

“A meeting?” Heaven help him, did she think he needed AA?

“Of the—the Ravens.”

He looked at her quizzically. “On Saturday night? Date night?” His tone was mocking; he was stalling her, he knew. “Must be a wild bunch,” he said.

“Joe, we’re going.”

“No.”

“Joe, you promised last night that—”

He lifted a hand. Damn, she was persistent.

“I said I’d take the case,” he told her. “And I’ll go to the meeting. But you aren’t going.”

“Of course I am!” she said indignantly.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Genevieve—”

“My mother is going to be there, Joe. There’s no way I’m not going to be there, too.”

He fell silent. What the hell was the matter with these people? If they all believed that Thorne Bigelow had been killed because he was a Raven, wouldn’t anyone sane think that perhaps they shouldn’t meet until the killer had been apprehended?

“It’s just stupid for them to be meeting,” he snapped.

“Stupid or not, it’s happening,” Genevieve said. “Besides, you’re the one who said that the whole Poe thing is a smoke screen.”

“I said it could be a smoke screen.”

“That…woman said that another Raven would be dead in a matter of days.”

“Gen…” He winced, lowering his head. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling the temple-pounding headache of a killer hangover, or a sense of mixed anger and dread. Gen was surely the most stubborn human being he’d ever met. She was like pit bull on behalf of the underdog or any cause she believed in. She rushed in where the sane wouldn’t go.

But he wasn’t angry with her, only upset that people liked to play so casually with the fears of others by claiming to know the future.

He lifted his chin, eyes on fire, and pointed a finger at her. “I said I’d take the case, and I will. But you’ll listen to me.”

“I always listen to you, Joe,” she said softly. That unnerved him.

Oh, yeah, she listened, in a perfect case of point noted—and rejected.

“Joe, honestly, I have to go tonight.”

“And you think the Ravens are just going to discuss some favorite masterpiece by Poe?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll talk about the murder.”

“We’re not members. Are you sure they’ll let us in?”

“Members are always free to bring guests. It’s simply a matter of paying for their meals. And can you imagine anyone trying to tell my mother that she’s not welcome to bring her daughter and a friend?”

Gen had a point. Eileen had the power to open a lot of doors.

He stood up. The world didn’t rock. A shower would fix him, he decided.

“All right, I’m going home, but I’ll be back in time to go to the meeting with you. And you’ll stay here until I come back for you.”

“Joe…” She said his name in a soft whisper, accompanied by a weary sigh. “I am not a hothouse flower. I’ve been taking care of myself in the city for some time now. I do not intend to stay cooped up in my apartment all day.”

He arched a brow. “It’s a really nice apartment.”

She flushed. It was a nice apartment. She lived here because of Eileen; the building was supposed to have the best security system in the city.

“Joe—”

“Give it a rest, Gen. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Depending on traffic,” he added dryly, wondering how long it would take to reclaim his car at the impound lot.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. If we’re going to this meeting, let’s do a little Poe research first, huh?”

She stared back at him, a slow smile curving her lips, a light entering her eyes.

Damn, she was a beautiful woman.

“Oh, Joe, that’s great!”

She leapt up and threw her arms around him. Her scent was intoxicating, and the feel of her warm body as she crushed herself against him was like a taste of heaven.

He unwound her arms and stepped back. “You, uh, you stay here till I get back, promise?”

She looked at him with a frown.

“Just this morning, Gen, please? Until I get a handle on this.”

“I’m not a Raven. It’s my mom we’re worried about, remember?”

“Gen?”

“Yes, fine.”

He started out.

“Joe? You don’t have your car,” she reminded him. “You can take mine. It’s in the garage.”

He was certain that the garage fee in this building was probably more than most Americans paid for an apartment. But he couldn’t take her car. It was time to rescue his own.

“I’ll just grab a cab for now.”

“I can call you a car—”

“And I can run out to the street and snag a cab. I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

Genevieve didn’t mind spending a few hours in the apartment. In fact, she loved the apartment and liked killing time there. What she did mind was being told that she needed to stay somewhere, anywhere, even though she knew that she should be grateful she had friends who cared.

At least he intended to involve her in the investigation, although he definitely wasn’t happy about how things had played out last night. He was never happy if he wasn’t in control. Not so much of others, but he was the kind of man who wanted to be in control of himself at all times, and getting drunk was anything but.

Restlessly, she paced the room. The morning would go slowly. She was sure of it.

She put a call through to her mother, just to say hello and tell her that she and Joe would be taking her to the meeting that night.

“I’m afraid it won’t be much of a meeting,” Eileen warned. “All they’ll do is talk about poor Thorne.” She hesitated at the other end of the line. “I suppose a lot of them are frightened, after what that psychic said.”

“But you’re not,” Genevieve chided.

“Of course not.” There was another slight silence, then a gasp. “Oh, Genevieve! Perhaps you shouldn’t come.”

“Mother, stop.”

“But, darling, after all you’ve been through, do you really want to be around a bunch of people talking about murder?”

“After all I’ve been through, I take great delight in going wherever I choose to go.”

“But—”

“We’ll pick you up at six-thirty,” Genevieve said.

“Genevieve, I can get there by myself.”

“We’ll pick you up at six-thirty,” Gen repeated.

“At least you’ll be with Joe,” Eileen said.

“Right. At least I’ll be with Joe,” Genevieve agreed, though she was more than a little irritated by her mother’s words. Even her own mother felt she needed protection.

Genevieve rang off and wandered over to her desk, where she brought the front page of the paper up on her computer, curious to see if anything new had been written about Thorne’s murder.

The headline and the main story were on the accident that had taken place on the FDR. She read the story, then clicked a link and watched the video that had been taken by a chance onlooker. Unfortunately, nothing in the story or the video told her anything that Joe hadn’t.

Genevieve drummed her fingers on the desk. Sam Latham had been in that accident.

And so had Joe.

She hesitated, then picked up the phone again. This time she called St. Vincent’s.

Sam was in a regular room and able to see visitors.

Again she hesitated. Then she glanced at the clock. She could get to St. Vincent’s and back in plenty of time. She wouldn’t take her own car. She would have Tim, the morning security guard, call for car service, and the driver could just wait for her while she was at the hospital. She could be back in no time.

Even as she made the arrangements, she felt guilty.

She told herself that she didn’t owe anyone anything, that she was a free woman who could come and go as she pleased. Even so, she felt guilty.

After all, she’d promised.

But it was broad daylight, and she needed to see Sam Latham.

But she had promised.

As her mind warred with itself, the phone rang. She was going to let the machine get it, but she heard Joe’s voice and picked up.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he returned. “Listen, I forgot I had an appointment. I’ll be a few hours longer. Is that okay with you?”

“I’m sure I can fill the time somehow,” she told him.

“Okay. Let’s say I’ll be back around two or two-thirty.”

“Perfect,” she told him.

Okay, so she still felt guilty. But, really, the promise had been made during the last conversation, when he wasn’t going to be gone nearly so long. That had to make it null and void. She had said that she would find a way to fill the time, and she would.

She left her apartment, making sure to lock up, and hurried to the elevator.

If he’d been blindfolded, he would have known where he was.

No matter how much antiseptic was used, no matter what kind of air filtration was in place, a morgue smelled like a morgue.

Even in the entry rooms.

Joe was grateful to be in good standing with the police. He didn’t even need to show his credentials when he arrived; Judy, at the desk, knew him well.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.

“Hey, handsome.”

“You’re too kind.”

She was a big woman, round and rosy-cheeked, fiftysomething and always pleasant. She was the perfect person to meet the public in such a place.

“Hey,” she said, laughing. “The living always look handsome to me.”

“Ah, shucks, be careful or all these compliments will go to my head.”

“Better be careful—your head could swell up like a balloon if I really got going,” she teased. “But you’re not here to flirt.”

“No. Judy, ’fraid not. I need to know who was on the Thorne Bigelow autopsy.”

“Oh, that was Frankie.”

Not many people could have used such a casual reference. Frankie was Dr. Francis Arbitter, one of the most renowned members of the medical examiner’s office. He was a down-to-earth guy, but his expertise had earned him a reverence over the years that made most people speak of him with awe.

“Is he available?”

“I’m sure he’ll see you.”

A phone call sent him through the double doors and down the hallway to autopsy room number four.

Francis Arbitter was alone. There was a corpse on a Gurney, but a sheet covered the torso and limbs. There was a huge gash on the head of the middle-aged, bearded man who lay there, but there was no sign of blood. The body had been washed for the exam that was about to take place.

Frank was at his desk, munching on what appeared to be a ham and cheese on rye. “Joe!” he called with a smile, and he rose. He was a tall, well-muscled man who looked like he should have been playing fullback instead of solving mysteries at a morgue. But his tousled, thinning hair and Coke-bottle glasses gave him a little bit of the mad-scientist look that was more befitting to his chosen calling.

“Sit, sit,” he said, drawing up a chair from behind one of the other clinically clean desks in the room.

Joe took a seat. He’d been in plenty of morgues, but he never became as accustomed to working with the dead as Frank, who got right to the point.

“If you just wanted to shoot the breeze, you’d have called to meet for a beer somewhere. So what’s up? I’m guessing it’s the Thorne Bigelow murder.”

“Good deduction,” Joe said.

“Well, speaking as Dr. Watson here, I’d have to say I learned something from Holmes,” Frank said shrewdly. “You’ve worked for Eileen Brideswell before. She knew Thorne, so I assume she intends to use her resources to help the police find the murderer. After all, she has a lot at stake.”

Joe decided not to correct him and explain that he wasn’t working for Eileen but had been pretty much forced to take the case by Genevieve. He wasn’t surprised that Frank had made the assumption that his appearance had to do with the case, but he was surprised that Frank seemed to think that Eileen had a lot at stake.

He nodded, watching Frank. “Yes, I’m here about Bigelow.”

“His son picked up the body the other day. Personally. What with the Bigelow money, he certainly didn’t have to do it, but the kid came in here crying like a baby. Well, hell, he’s not a kid, really. He’s got to be about thirty.”

“I guess you never get so old that you don’t feel the loss of a parent.”

“No.” Frank shrugged. “I talked to him. He’s on the warpath himself, wants to know who killed his father, and why.”

Joe stared at Frank, and Frank grinned and shrugged.

“Okay, you and I both know that the Bigelow money and power drew lots of enemies. But, hey, I’m not a cop. I turn over my findings, and the cops take it from there.”

“And what did you find?”

“That the man’s love for a good glass of wine did him in.”

“So his wine was definitely poisoned?”

“Definitely. He hadn’t eaten in hours. From the timing, I got the impression he was probably about to go out for dinner. That it was the aperitif before the meal.”

“What was it?”

“Rosencraft 1858. A very rare burgundy,” Frank said.

Joe almost smiled. “I meant the poison.”

“Arsenic.”

“I thought arsenic poisoners usually dosed their victims more slowly?”

“Arsenic poisoning was popular in the past. Centuries ago. People got sick, and eventually they died. But a large dose is just as effective—and quicker.”

“Was there anything else? Any sign of a struggle? Bruises, gashes, defensive wounds?”

“Not a thing,” Frank told him.

Joe was silent. Frank shrugged. “‘Quoth the raven—die.’”

“There’s nothing about poisoning in ‘The Raven,’ is there?”

“No, but there is in both ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”

“I do the autopsy, Joe. That’s it. After that, I let the cops do their work.”

“Who caught the case?” Joe asked.

“Raif Green and Thomas Dooley. They’re both good guys. Neither one is green. They’ve been working murders together for almost ten years.”

“Yeah, I know them both,” Joe said. He knew them well, and he liked them both. That was a relief. Neither was the type of hothead to get antsy because a P.I. was on the case. They were both workhorses who had come up through the ranks, seen everything, grown weary and kept at it anyway. Good cops, they were constrained by the department’s budget and tended to be pleased when someone like him could throw some private citizen’s funds at a case.

“There’s a break for you,” Frank said.

“Yeah, thanks, I’ll give Raif a call. I know him best,” Joe said as he rose. “We’ll have to grab a beer soon, Frank. I don’t want to keep you from your work now, though.”

“Don’t worry. Old Hank isn’t going to get any deader,” Frank told him.

Joe glanced over at the body on the Gurney. If it weren’t for the gash, “Old Hank” could have been sleeping.

“A fall?” he asked skeptically.

“Oh, yeah. You bet. He fell right into his buddy’s broken-off whiskey bottle.”

“Sad,” Joe said.

“It’s always sad,” Frank said. “That’s the thing—death is sad. Except…”

Curiously, Joe turned back to him. “Except?”

Frank shrugged. “Every once in a while, I get someone in here who was dying of cancer or something. I cut them open, and it’s horrifying what disease does to them on the inside. But on the outside, hell, sometimes it’s as if they’re actually smiling. Like death was a release from god-awful pain.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. Then again—hell, you should know this—you never get used to it. And if you did, you’d suck at your job.”

“Dr. Arbitter?”

A young woman was standing in the open door.

“Connie?” Frank said.

“They need you in reception.”

“Be right back,” Frank told Joe.

Joe started to protest. He needed to get going. But Frank had already gone to see to whatever business had summoned him away.

Joe looked over at the body, and suddenly the corpse’s head turned, and the grizzled old man opened his eyes. Hey, you. Yeah, you, buddy. You can see me, and you can hear me. You tell Vinny I said fuck you! You tell him he’s going to get his. He can get that crack-freak friend of his to pay his bail, but he’s going to go down out on the streets. You tell him. He ain’t going to have a moment’s peace. You tell him, you hear me? Damn you, you hear me?

Joe felt frozen, staring at the corpse.

This was bullshit.

It was all in his mind.

Hell, he must have had even more to drink last night than he’d thought.

The door behind him swung open again. He spun around. Frank had returned, muttering. “With all today’s technology, these clerks still can’t spell. Who the hell mistakes the word breast for beast?”

Joe looked back at the body.

It was just a corpse again.

Old Hank couldn’t get any deader.

“Joe? You all right?” Frank asked. “Hell, man, you’re as white as if you’d seen a ghost.”

Joe forced a laugh. “Like you said, Frank. Old Hank can’t get any deader. I take it the cops have whoever did this to him?”

“Dead to rights. A low-life drug dealer. Not that Hank was your model citizen. He bought it during a barroom fight with a guy named Vincent Cenzo.”

He’d just had to ask, Joe thought.

“So, Joe. I’m sorry, where were we?” Frank asked.

“Finished,” Joe said, offering his hand.

“Beers are on me,” Frank said as they shook.

“Sounds good. See you soon.”

“You bet. You need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

Call. Yup. Next time, he would just call.

“See you, Frank. Thanks.”

He felt like a swimmer who had seen a shark and needed to stay calm. He tried like hell not to go running out of the autopsy room.

He managed to push his way through the doors like a normal person, then walked quickly down the hall. He even managed a goodbye and thanks for Judy at the desk.

Then he burst out into the light of day and joined the throng of people rushing around in the Saturday afternoon sunshine.

He was almost running…

And then he stopped.

Because there was no way for a man to run away from his own mind.

What a beautiful day.

He walked and walked, wishing he had a hat to tip to passersby. It was nearly summer, but the usual heat and humidity weren’t plaguing the city today. No rain clouds marred the heavens. No unhealthy miasma hung around the buildings, and a pleasant breeze swept through the giant forests of concrete and steel. It was simply a perfect day.

He visited St. Mark’s Square, where he paused, thinking that politicians, stars, geniuses, men of letters, heroes, patriots and enemies of the state had once walked this way. He closed his eyes and imagined a long-ago city.

What a beautiful, beautiful day. It was just good to be out. To love New York. To love the world.

To bask in pleasure.

Someone walked by him with a boom box blaring, gold chains making a strange clanking sound against the plastic casing. The man’s arm sported a tattoo.

Ah, yes. The gangs of New York. Ever present. Then and now.

A little Yorkie passed him, yapping shrilly. He was tempted to kick the tiny beast into the traffic. Instead, he paused and said something complimentary to the dog’s pudgy owner, who blushed and chatted. He moved on quickly then, afraid she was going to try to give him her phone number.

He passed a police officer strolling his beat, and nodded a greeting. The officer nodded and smiled in return.

As he walked at a leisurely pace, he passed an electronics store. A giant plasma screen took up most of the display window. The news was on, so he paused to watch.

His heart was filled with glee. He longed to laugh aloud. Instead, he watched gravely as other people grouped around him on the sidewalk.

The entire city was still pondering the death of Thorne Bigelow.

Philanthropist.

Icon.

Brilliant man of letters.

Like hell!

Bastard. Braggart. Glutton. Idiot.

“What a horrible way to die,” someone said.

“It’s that book he wrote. He was killed because someone didn’t like his book on Poe,” a young woman said solemnly.

Her boyfriend slipped an arm around her shoulders. She was hugging something that looked like a mop. Maltese, Pekinese, some kind of “ese.” What was it with people and their obnoxious little dogs ruining his Saturday morning?

“It could have been anything,” the boyfriend said. “I mean, the man was a billionaire.”

The man was a bag of hot air. Gas. He was one big fart.

“Tragic,” he said aloud.

The boyfriend was shaking his head. “Did you know that one of the guys who got hurt in that pileup on the FDR was some friend of Bigelow’s?”

The girl shivered. “And that psychic said somebody else is going to die.”

“Think psychics really know the future?” he asked, turning to the couple.

“Oh, yes,” the girl said, and turned to look at him. Maybe a little too closely. “There are real psychics out there. People who see things. Who knows if that woman, that Lori Star, is really one of them, though. I mean, I never heard of her. She hasn’t written a book or anything. Anyway, it’s all so tragic, don’t you think?”

“Tragic,” he repeated, shaking his head.

And he moved on somberly, his head lowered.

His grin wide.

Yes, it was a beautiful day.

His grin suddenly faded.

It was bull. There weren’t really people out there who could see the future, who had second sight, who could share experiences as if they were in another person’s body and just…know things.

Were there?

He kept walking, pensive.

Maybe it wasn’t such a beautiful day after all.