Invisible Evidence

VINCE ABSENTLY STUDIED the nameplate he held in his hands, tracing the letters with his index finger over and over, as if answers to his current problem could be found within the engraved wood and gold leaf. VINCENT MARCELLI—PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. It had been a parting gift from his friend and ex-commanding officer, Sergeant Bill Anderson.

Placing the nameplate back at the front of his cluttered desk, Vince jabbed a frustrated hand through his hair, grumbling a few choice cuss words. He had never failed to solve a case—until now.

His projects usually consisted of insurance fraud, husbands or wives looking for concrete proof of infidelity to reap all of the benefits after the divorce, and companies trying to bust the less-than-honest employee. He had always caught them, too. But this time he was at a dead-end. His first kidnapping case and he couldn’t solve the damned thing.

He went over his notes for the hundredth time, checking off each item again as he pored over the words, always hoping he’d missed something or that it would finally all click into place, making it clear to him.

Vince wasn’t one to give up, but no matter how badly it went against every cell in his six-foot-four Italian body, he needed help—bad. He also needed a cigarette—desperately.

Tossing the tablet and pen aside, he searched the top drawer of his desk, impatiently shoving pencils, papers and other whatnots aside, seeking the cellophane wrapped box. Nothing.

Slamming the drawer shut, he laid his aching head on the only clean spot his desk possessed and swore blackly as he remembered that he had quit smoking nearly three months ago.

At the time it had seemed like a great idea as his fortieth birthday loomed ever closer, but now he cursed the day he threw the last pack away. Grabbing a stick of spearmint gum from beneath a coffee-stained folder, he grudgingly tore the wrapper off, shoved the gum into his mouth and chewed, hard. It did help, a little.

Wadding the silver paper into a tight ball and flicking it across the room, he inhaled a deep breath to clear his mind and admitted he didn’t regret giving up smoking one bit, since deep breathing and walking more than a block used to nearly give him a coronary.

To pass some time, he cleared his desk, retiring folders containing long-ago closed cases to his battered file cabinet, trying to get his mind off cigarettes and mentally preparing himself for the arrival of Julie Simmons...psychic.

Just thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t believe in any of that ESP crap, but he was desperate and going just a little bit insane. Insanity could be the only reason he was resorting to Madam Zelda and her crystal ball.

Vince grimaced at the vivid images his mind conjured up. She was probably an old hag with a hairy wart on her chin and a voice that sounded like an eighteen-wheeler jamming on its brakes. Of course, all were suppositions since he’d never actually seen or spoken to the woman. His call to her the previous evening had connected with some goofy prerecorded thing on her phone. So, he’d left his message, cursed himself for calling in the first place, and wondered if she’d even show up.

He knew Ms. Simmons had helped on numerous cases with the LAPD over the years. Her reputation for obtaining information with her psychic gift was highly praised around the precincts she assisted. A crock of BS is what he’d called it. Yet here he was, ready to beg her on bended knee for help in cracking one of his cases.

Maybe if it hadn’t involved a child he wouldn’t be so stressed-out about the whole thing, but just thinking about a little kid separated from his parents, most likely terrified.... It nearly ripped him apart.

So, he would swallow his pride, listen to what Ms. Simmons had in way of information—if there was any—thank her, pay her, and try not to let the door hit her in the ass on the way out.

Aiming for the overly filled wastebasket at his side and squarely missing it, Vince spit out the wad of now bland rubber. Lord, was he tense. Obviously, he would have to find another outlet for his stress and tension, quick.

Hearing the doorbell ring, Vince let out a sigh, pushing his bulk away from the desk, the wheels of the small office chair groaning in protest. In just a few strides he crossed the short distance from his office to the front door in the living room.

Grasping the doorknob with a large and not too steady hand, he mustered up all the strength he knew he would need while listening to the crackpot who was probably standing on the other side.

“Let’s get this charade over with,” he muttered under his breath, jerking the door open. And there she stood.

Vince sucked in a sharp breath, feeling as if he’d been shot. The tension in his back and shoulders took a nosedive, making his jeans uncomfortably snug.

“So, we finally meet, Marcelli.” The woman smiled warmly, holding out a slender hand in greeting.

This was the psychotic crackpot? The old hag he had expected to encounter?

He gave her a brief once-over. She wore a gauzy-type dress in the wildest print he had ever seen. Was any color of the rainbow left out? It came down to her shins, bringing attention to white ankle socks and turquoise canvas sneakers gracing her feet. The bell sleeves of her filmy blouse fluttered with the June breeze the L.A. basin had been blessed with today. Vince smiled ever so slightly. She looked like a fairy or a sprite.

Rendered mute, Vince warily accepted her hand, engulfing it with his own. He gave the appendage a quick up and down motion as he collected his senses.

Thankfully, with his next labored breath, his shock lessened. He took his hand back and stuffed it in the rear pocket of his jeans, all the while trying to not let the warm and apparently genuine smile on her face melt his cold, hard criticism of her kind. Just because she was small and innocent-looking didn’t mean he automatically trusted her. He’d been fooled by the best.

A faded yellow VW with a mangled back bumper caught his eye as it pulled up to the curb in front of his house. Vince studied the driver for a second. An old lady and young kid sat in the car talking. That has to be the psychic. There was no way that this woman, he glanced at the package in front of him, could be the psychic. He never had luck like that.

The kid got out of the car and waved to the elderly woman, then trotted off two houses down. Evidently, she was just dropping him off. Was his luck about to change? Maybe, but he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t such a good thing.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Ms. Simmons said after he’d stood there in silence for an uncomfortable minute. Vince couldn’t help but notice that her voice sounded more like smooth, twenty-year-old scotch than screeching brakes.

“To shake my hand?” His left hand took up residence in the other back pocket.

She shrugged and smiled brightly, tucking her envelope purse under her arm. “That, among other things.”

Vince frowned down at her. Way down. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He didn’t have the foggiest, and didn’t care. He needed information about the case, not to stand around trying to figure out this woman’s cryptic messages—even if his insides did find her rather appealing.

His gaze lingered on her face a moment. She certainly was pretty, in a pixie sort of way. No, maybe cute was a more exact word. She had dark coffee-colored eyes and shoulder length hair that matched in tone. As she moved, the shiny mane swished around her face. He knew he was staring as his mind started to wander along a path it hadn’t been down in a very long time. Instantly, he put a stop to the asinine thoughts.

“Umm...did you want me to do the reading out here on the porch?” She glanced around, looking uncomfortable at his obvious scrutiny.

Vince cleared his throat, bringing himself back to the here and now. “Come in." Freeing his hands, he motioned for her to follow. She would be out of here in less than twenty minutes, thirty at the most, no need to rouse his hibernating hormones.

As they entered his small, cluttered office, he saw her eyeing the items perched near the edge of his desk. “Ready for business, I see.”

“Yep." He gave no further explanation.

“This yours?” She stopped, lifted one foot from the gray carpet, and pulled off a wad of gum.

Vince felt himself go hot from neck to scalp. “Yeah.” He grabbed the gum from her and threw it in the wastebasket. “Sorry about that.” Frowning, he said, “I gather you received the details I left on your voicemail regarding the information I need and my pay rate.”

Miss Simmons nodded and looked like she was trying very hard not to smile. “You don’t think I can help you one bit, do you?”

Vince shrugged. “Just skeptical. Comes with the territory.” Propping himself against one side of the heavy desk, sneaker-clad feet crossed at the ankles, he gestured for her to take the brown vinyl chair in front of it. When she took the offered spot, he tipped his head, pointing at the first item, indicating that she should pick it up and begin her reading. No chitchat, no questions, no forms to fill out. He didn’t go for any of that formal crap. He simply wanted to get down to...