Intuition. Carol Ericson
fogging the window. “Harlan Sloan was the concert promoter the year Bree went missing.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
“Did you figure me for a slouch?”
She shrugged. “Not really. What kinds of cases do you work mostly?”
“Let’s save this conversation for later.” He straightened to his full height and steered her into the small café.
The hostess waved them to a couple of empty tables on the right side of the room and they snagged one in the corner—better for plotting and planning…and working. Because this was a working breakfast, nothing more.
After the waitress took their order, Kylie planted her elbows on the table. “Okay, so what else do you have on this case other than the fact that Harlan Sloan was the promoter of the event and tried to stonewall the investigation into Bree’s disappearance?”
“How do you know Sloan tried to stonewall things? From what I could gather, Chief Evans was quick to label this a runaway situation.”
“It delayed the investigation because they weren’t calling it a missing persons case until a few days after Bree was supposed to be back home getting ready for college.”
“According to Mr. Harris and everyone who knew Bree, she wasn’t runaway material.” Matt took a sip of his grapefruit juice and puckered his lips. “So how did Sloan figure in the picture?”
Kylie dragged her gaze away from Matt’s lips and blinked her eyes. “What?”
“Sloan. How was he blocking the investigation?”
“From the reports I read, he wasn’t too anxious to give the police information about the roadies on the show or even the performers.” Kylie took a gulp of ice water, trying to quench the fire that burned every time she looked into Matt’s eyes.
“I guess his attempt to cover up didn’t do much good since he wasn’t involved in the past two music festivals.”
“He’s back now.”
“So how do you work? You seem to know a lot about the case.”
Could she explain her process to Matt? She’d never gone into details with anyone before. Kylie swallowed her words while the waitress put their plates on the table.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Matt pointed to his egg white omelet stuffed with spinach and mushrooms. “Some salsa, please.”
“Coming right up.”
She studied his plate with the fruit and dry wheat toast on the side, and then wrinkled her nose at her own cheese and bacon omelet with twin dollops of guacamole and sour cream on the top. “You’re too healthy. You make me feel guilty.”
“It wasn’t just the drinking with my old man.” He picked up a slice of toast and added a spoonful of strawberry jam. “He destroyed his health bit by bit until he dropped dead of a heart attack at forty-nine. I’m not going down that road.”
“And yet you still ride a motorcycle.”
He shrugged and thanked the waitress for the salsa. “What’s life without a few risks? But we were talking about you.”
“We were?” She crunched into her bacon, getting no enjoyment from its salty goodness as Matt spooned salsa on his healthy omelet.
“I was asking you how you worked because you seem to know a lot of details about the case.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess you figured I just closed my eyes, and all the answers would come to me. On a Ouija board.”
“I have to admit, we…I’ve never worked with a psychic before on a case. Tell me how it’s done.”
Kylie took a deep breath. “Every case is a little different. I try to find out all the facts first, usually from the police report if I can get it.”
“Do you usually get it?”
“It depends. If the police are the ones who hired me, yeah, slam dunk. If the family hired me…” She hunched her shoulders and dabbed her lips with a napkin.
“I can tell you straight-up, Chief Evans is not the most cooperative guy.”
Kylie’s hand trembled as she stabbed a potato. “Did you see the report?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
“Is he going to give you access?”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll get it anyway.” He polished off the last bite of his omelet and eyed her potatoes. “Are you going to eat those?”
“It’s good to see you’re not perfect.” She shoved her plate toward him.
“Me? Perfect? You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Did she? He seemed so right in so many ways.
“We keep getting off topic.” He crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Whether or not you see the police report, what’s your next move?”
“I need something in my possession that belonged to the victim.”
“What did Mrs. Harris give you?”
Kylie unzipped her bag and pulled out a red scarf with gold thread woven through it. “This was Bree’s.”
Skimming his hand across the diaphanous fabric, Matt, said, “I take it you can’t just hold the thing in your hand and the victim whispers in your ear or something.”
“Not exactly.” She balled up the scarf and shoved it back into her bag. “I don’t see dead people and they don’t talk to me. Rather, I sense a situation or I see scenes flash in my head. Sometimes I feel what the victim feels, and sometimes…” She gripped her upper arms and shivered.
“Sometimes what?”
“Sometimes I’m in the killer’s head.”
Matt tipped his chair back and cocked his head. “You’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.”
“That’s gotta be creepy as hell.”
“I think that’s what…” She trailed off again. Matt didn’t want to hear her wild assumptions about Mom. He already thought she was creepy. “Your turn.”
Matt squinted at the bill the waitress had just dropped at their table. “Huh?”
“What do you have, and why did Mr. Harris hire you? Did he find you on the internet? Portland’s a long way from L.A.”
“It was a referral, and I don’t have much on the case. Just what Harris gave me and going through old news stories—Bree was on summer break from the University of Oregon and drove down solo for the concert, hooking up with some locals while she was here.”
Kylie nodded. “She hung out in Coral Cove, stayed with the local kids and they attended the first two days of the concert together.”
“And then on the third and last day of the concert—” Matt snapped his fingers “—poof, Bree disappeared.”
“I never read anything more about those friends, did you?” She snatched the check from his hand. “I’ll get this.”
“Do you have an expense account?”
“No. Do you?”
“You’re on a job, right?”
“Well, yes.”
“You’re not doing this pro bono, are you?”
“Of course not. Mrs. Harris is paying me.”
“But you’re paying your own expenses.”
“And