Before he could comment, Avery explained, “I want you to wear it at all times, even when you’re sleeping. Do you understand?”
His friend’s tone of voice generated a shiver, one O’Fallon barely repressed. “I assume you’ve blessed it.”
The priest hesitated and then nodded. “Yes. It’s been . . . thoroughly blessed.”
Odd way to put it. O’Fallon closed his palm around the cross and listened to what it had to say to him. Love, warmth, security, the voices of monks, the clear blue skies of Ireland . . . No . . . not skies . . .
He opened his hand to find Avery studying him. “Gavenia’s touched this, hasn’t she?”
The priest nodded. “She brought it to me last night. She had her . . . deity . . . bless it and asked me to have Saint Bridget do the same.”
“I see.” O’Fallon mulled that over. Was he comfortable wearing something the witch’s goddess had blessed?
As if knowing his dilemma, Avery added, “I anointed it with holy water, and it spent the night in Saint Bridget’s hands.”
If Avery’s okay with it . . . “I bet Rome would just love this.”
A glare. “I know what’s best for my flock.”
O’Fallon raised his hands in surrender. Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off priest. Dropping his hands, he kissed the cross and placed it over his head, letting it fall under his shirt. It tingled against his skin.
“Thank you, Avery,” he said quietly.
“Just be careful.”
“Oh, I will.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am. I intend to find Bradley’s killer and I want Glass behind bars.”
Avery grew pensive. “As your confessor, I would remind you that vengeance is the Lord’s purview.”
“And as Adam’s father?” O’Fallon asked.
“As Adam’s father?” The priest rose from his seat and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Nail the bastard.”
A fine, crisp morning greeted O’Fallon as he stepped outside the church, and he took a deep inhalation, savoring the moment. He listened for the voices, though in his heart he knew they wouldn’t be there. Instead of the horror of the night before, he was welcomed by the reassuring sounds of car horns, chirping birds, and a driver trying to cajole a traffic officer out of a ticket. Rubbing his fingers over the top of the cross, he whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
* * *
“What do you mean I can’t sue him?” Gavenia demanded, a scowl on her face. “He’s lying, Llewellyn; we both know that.”
“Yes, but that means jack in court.” Llewellyn inserted a neat stack of papers inside a folder and placed it on the side of his broad desk. “What sort of evidence do you have?” he asked.
“Well, nothing but—”
He waved her off. “Come on; you worked in this office—you know what you need to present a case. Do you have anything that proves his mother was murdered and that he knew of it before he ran the article?” Llewellyn challenged.
“Well, no . . .”
“If you can prove prior knowledge, then we can go for libel. If not, you’re out of luck.”
She opened and closed her mouth in rapid succession. “Damn.”
“Precisely.”
“What if I find the proof?” she asked, her hand gripping the cane so tightly her fingers blanched.
“Then that bastard’s balls are mine.”
Gavenia cracked a grin and he followed suit.
“Let me see what I can find out,” she said.
He swung himself around the desk and unexpectedly gave her a big hug. His aftershave brought back memories of the night he’d pulled her out of that death trap, taken her away from those who would have ended her life. Her own father had abandoned her and her sister when she was nine, but Llewellyn had always been there.
Had she ever thanked him?
Gavenia hugged him hard. “I’ve always thought of you as my father,” she said. He pulled back, and the expression on his face was priceless.
Llewellyn placed a peck on her cheek and his eyes grew moist. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“I never thanked you for finding me. I—”
He placed his finger on her lips, gently silencing her. “No need; I understand.” They broke apart when his intercom reminded him the next client was waiting.
She paused at the door, sad the tender moment had passed so quickly.
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” he said. “Now go get what I need to file suit.”
* * *
The newspaper receptionist had a well-practiced monotone.
“Mr. Jones is in a meeting. You’ll need to wait here,” she said. In front of her was the accursed paper, turned to the page with the article. The woman studied the picture and then looked up at the original. A sneer lit her face.
“How long do you think it will be?” Gavenia asked, resisting the urge to snatch the paper and grind it into pulp on the exquisitely polished marble floor.
“I have no idea.” The woman’s sneer grew. “You’re the so-called psychic, aren’t you?”
Gavenia ground her teeth and parked herself on a sofa. Bart sat nearby, dressed in a fifties-style suit and black-rimmed glasses. She leaned over to catch the name on the tag above his breast pocket: Kent.
Got a pair of tights and a cape under that suit, mister? she asked, repressing a chuckle.
Wouldn’t you like to know? he replied, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Gavenia’s patience proved nonexistent. “Enough of this,” she said, and headed toward the bank of elevators. After scanning the directory, she pushed the button and waited. The elevator arrived quickly.
She shot a quick look at the gatekeeper. The gate dragon was too engrossed with a UPS delivery man to notice the psychic was on the loose. “So far so good,” Gavenia said, entering the elevator.
Bart only gave her a wink in reply and pushed his glasses up on his nose.
After the elevator doors closed, she whispered, “Why are you the only Guardian I’ve seen who wears costumes?”
Once a thespian, always a thespian.
“That’s not an answer.”
He gestured graciously as the doors opened. Your floor, madam.
Gavenia hesitated at the newsroom doorway, and despite the initial rush of adrenalin, nerves took over. At best she’d have a chance to confront Bill Jones, demand he retract that ridiculous story. The worst-case scenario involved a trip with the cops and a call to Llew to make bail.
That would play really well for Jones, Bart advised.
“Then we won’t do that,” she whispered. She wove her way through the desk maze, trying to blend in, which proved difficult given the fact that her photo was in today’s edition.
Jones’s desk sported a gold nameplate. As predicted by the receptionist, he was absent.
Gavenia eased herself into a chair next to the desk. As she sat, loose papers fluttered to the floor at her feet. She collected them with difficulty, her hip protesting. As she placed them back on the desk, she caught sight of a valet parking stub from the Mirage in Vegas. It was dated only a few days earlier.
Bart leaned over to inspect the stub. Hmmm . . . now that’s interesting.
Before she had an opportunity to ponder that discovery, the noise level around her increased. Reporters streamed back toward their respective desks. Jones appeared a few moments later. He stopped in midstride, glanced at top of the desk, and then continued toward her in an arrogant strut.
“Here for another séance?” he asked in a derisive tone.
“No, I’m here for a retraction.”
“Really? You must not be very psychic, then, because there’s no retraction in my future.”
“Perhaps you can explain why you feel the need to make my life a living hell.”
Jones dropped into his chair and swiveled around until he faced her. Lacing his hands behind his head, he propped his feet on the desk, grinning. “It’s what I
do. Besides, if you weren’t good for it—”
“I know what I saw, Mr. Jones.”
“I already have an article filed for tomorrow—about one of your people, in fact—but I can change that.”
“‘My people’? You make that sound like we’re the enemy,” she said, her voice rising.
“You all are.”
“I told you the truth.”
Another reporter stopped by the desk. “You need me to call security, Bill?”
“No, not yet.”
Gavenia took the hint. She stood, pressing heavily on her cane for support.
When in doubt, bluff. “You’re on notice that if you don’t print a retraction, I’ll be filing suit against you and the paper.”
The laugh that issued from Jones’s mouth sent shivers up her spine. “Go for it. We have lawyers sitting around with nothing to do but move paper clips from one side of their desk to the other. They’d love to earn their retainer.”
She shook her head. “You’re racking up a lot of very negative karma, Mr. Jones. Trust me, it always comes around.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked, leaning forward. “Are you going to put a spell on me?” The other reporter took a step backward as if she intended to do something nasty to him as well.
Gavenia shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. You’re not worth it.”
“There’s where you’re wrong. I’m the best there is because there are no boundaries. I make the news, Ms. Kingsgrave. People will remember me for years to come because of what I do.”
Another shiver coursed along Gavenia’s spine. She shot Bart a look, and he gave a low whistle.
Oh boy . . . he’s named his own fate.
Gavenia repressed her answering nod. “So be it, Mr. Jones. It’s your karma, not mine.”
Jones blinked for a moment as if suddenly unsure. He gave a quick glance toward the desk and then back to her.
“I stand by my article,” he said.
“And I stand by my gift.” As Gavenia strode out of the office, patches of conversation filtered around her. No one had missed the scene. When she passed one desk, a young man smiled up at her. She nodded in return, disconcerted by his overly friendly demeanor. It seemed almost treasonous.
As she descended to the lobby, the elevator paused at the third floor. Much to Gavenia’s relief, a heavyset woman enveloped in floral perfume exited, unfortunately leaving most of her scent behind. At the last minute, a man got on. She recognized him: he was the one from the newsroom, the guy who’d smiled at her. He was breathing heavily, as though he’d sprinted a marathon. Now they were the only two in the elevator as it continued downward. She brought her cane up and held it between her two hands, ready to separate the two halves if he proved a threat. A glance toward Bart netted her a shrug. She was being too paranoid. She put the cane back in its place.
The young man turned toward her, gave her another smile, took a deep breath, and said in a lowered voice, “Merry meet!”
Gavenia stared. She’d just received a Pagan greeting from a most unlikely source.
“Merry meet as well,” she replied. What the hell is this?
The winded man continued, “A responsible reporter would conduct research”—a breath—“before he submits an article.” Another deep breath. “If everything pans out, then he submits it. If not, he shelves it.”
Sensing an ally, Gavenia asked, “Even after the article is submitted?”
“You can always pull a piece before it goes to press,” the young man observed. The elevator gave a slight bump as it reached the first floor.
“What about Bill Jones?”
“He flew to Vegas after he submitted the article.”
As the doors began to open, she asked, “To do research or to play the slots?”
“That’s for you to find out. Merry part!” he said, and then swam through the group waiting for the elevator. By the time she’d escaped the throng, he was gone.
“And Merry meet again,” she said to herself, shaking her head at the improbability of encountering a sympathetic soul in the middle of Jones’s ink-stained world.
* * *
As Gavenia waited for Ari to come to the phone at the homeless shelter, she watched people roll their grocery carts to their cars, kids in tow. She’d pulled into the store’s parking lot after Bart warned her not to talk and drive at the same time. While she waited, Gavenia pondered on O’Fallon. How was he doing this morning? Would he blame her for last night? Had Avery gone along with her plan for the Brigit’s cross?
“The world’s shortest nonaffair,” she said, shaking her head as a surge of sadness pushed through her. He’d looked so hot in those blue jeans. Who knew how it might have turned out? “Double damn.”
“Cursing me already?” her sister asked in her ear.
“No, O’Fallon.”
“What’d he do this time?”
“I’ll tell you later. I need your help on the computer.”
“The Jones thing?”
“Yup.”
“Name it.”
“I need to figure out why Bill Jones went to Vegas a couple days ago.”
“Okay, can do. Go to that Starbucks near the condo. I need caffeine. I’ll meet you there in about . . . thirty minutes.”
Gavenia sighed in relief and ended the call. Ari would help her. They often had spats, but they never held grudges. Pity the Irish guy wouldn’t be there to see her take Bill Jones down.
Before she had the opportunity to turn off her phone, “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” announced an incoming call. She scrutinized the caller ID.
Speak of the leprechaun. “Hello?”
“So where have you been?” O’Fallon grumbled. She heard the clatter of dishes in the background, so he was probably at the diner. “I’ve called three times this morning. If you’re trying to blow me off . . .”
Three times? “No, it’s just been an ugly morning. I turned off the phone. So how are you doing?”
“Fine.” A pause, and then, “I owe you for last night.”
Gavenia blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry you went through that hell.”
“Yeah, it was hell all right. Avery gave me a Saint Bridget’s cross. It’s done the trick. No more voices.”
Did he know the origin of cross? Was that an attempt to feel her out?
Best not go there. “I’m very glad to hear that.”
“Can you meet me this afternoon? I have some questions about last night.”
“No, it’s not a good time.” She heard a sharp intake of breath and realized she’d been a bit abrupt. By way of explanation, she added, “I’m willing to talk to you some other time, but not right now.”
“What’s wrong?”
He’d read between the lines. “Did you see this morning’s paper?”
“No, too busy ducking demons. What’s in there I’d care about?”
“An article about psychic charlatans.”
“Hold on, there’s a copy on the counter.” She heard the phone clunk on a hard surface and a few words in the distance, then the PI was back. “Okay, I got the paper. What page?”
“Ten. Ari says the picture sucks.”
Gavenia heard the flipping of pages, another intake of breath, and then, “That son of a . . . Who the hell is this bastard?”
She couldn’t help but grin that the Irish guy was rising to her defense. That felt good.
“I did a reading for him. I didn’t realize he wasn’t legit until after the fact.”
“Do you want me to check him out for you?”
The offer was genuine, and Gavenia knew O’Fallon would turn Jones’s life inside out by the time he got done with him. She thought about it and then shook her head. “No, this one’s mine. You have other things to worry about.”
“This isn’t right, Gavenia, and you shouldn’t take the heat like this. Let me know if you need help.”
“Thanks, O’Fallon. That means a lot to me.”
“Hey, we psychic charl
atans should stick together, you know?” he joked.
Gavenia’s eyes widened. He’s made a lot of progress in one night.
“Your sister’s right: the photo does suck.”
She chuckled. He’d just made the dark morning a little brighter. “I may end up in Vegas running down a lead, but I’ll let you know one way or another.”
“Just be careful, Gavenia.”
“You too, O’Fallon.”
She disconnected the call and leaned back in the seat.
“Talk about change of heart . . . ,” she murmured.
Sounds like the Irish guy is on our team, Bart observed.
“Oh, yeah,” Gavenia said. She looked over at her Guardian. “Let’s cruise, dude. We’ve got work to do.”
He flipped down his sunglasses and mimed buckling his seat belt. “Let ’er rip, lady.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The mystery Pagan’s tip about Vegas sent Ari’s nimble fingers dancing over the keyboard with the sort of enthusiasm she used to exhibit at an archaeological dig. By the time they’d downed their second cup of Arabian Mocha Sanani, Ari had unearthed why Jones went to Sin City: the reporter’s mother lived there. That bit of news triggered an avalanche of uncertainty. Whose ghost had Gavenia seen? Had she fallen for an elaborate ethereal trick? The only way to put her doubts to rest was to meet June Jones.
Four hours later, Las Vegas greeted them with temperatures in the midseventies, a vast blue sky, distant snow-clad mountains, and just a hint of smog. As anxiety formed a knot in her stomach, Gavenia pressed the doorbell and waited. Ari stood next to her, twisting the strap of her purse in subtle agitation.
The person who answered the door had a strong resemblance to the dead woman, probably in her early seventies, her hair turning silver. At her ankles a Yorkie yapped a shrill warning.
“If you’re here to proselytize—,” she started, no doubt in reaction to Ari’s somber black garb.
“Are you Mrs. Jones?” Gavenia asked.
“Yes,” the woman answered warily. She studied Gavenia’s face as if trying to place it.