“I don’t know. I’ve got to go.”
She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “We’re in charge of a murder investigation. The very first thing we do is secure and process the scene. We can’t just . . . wander off.”
“You go back. I have to follow this.”
“Follow what!” she exclaimed, exasperated.
He opened his hand. A hotel room key. One of those cards with the magnetic strip.
The French Quarter Inn.
“It was in his hand.”
“And you took it?” She brought a hand to her eyes. “You can’t do that.”
“I had to.”
He’s crazy. Off his fuckin’ nut. “It’s worthless now. Contaminated. FBI didn’t teach you anything about evidence and chain of custody?”
“Of course. But in this case, that’s inconsequential.”
It took her a moment to swallow that one. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“We’ll find what we’re looking for at the French Quarter Inn. That’s where I’m going.”
He started off. She hurried after him. “Find what? The killer?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
Something? Seriously?
The Bureau didn’t have to worry about some gangbanger taking him out, she was going to do it herself.
She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Police work’s not just about following hunches. The investigative process is meticulous, logical.”
He seemed not to hear her, and she went on. “You may be a high-powered channel to Freaksville, but we’ll need evidence to get a conviction. And if you expect me to save your ass, you need to play by my rules.”
“You finished?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “No.”
“Too bad. Because I really need you to shut up now.”
Chapter Seven
Monday, July 8
10:45 A.M.
Zach led the way. If he was like everyone else, he would say he was following his gut. Or a hunch. But this was more like being led. By turning off one part of his brain and turning on another.
He’d picked up the energy when he’d touched Marty’s hand. It’d grown stronger as he’d pried the man’s hand open. The energy, the memory, clung to the room key. Wordlessly speaking to him. Calling him to follow.
It was dark. Powerful. Like nothing he’d experienced before.
What would they find at the end of this journey? Or should he call it a trail? For that’s what this was. Not epic. More like psychic breadcrumbs.
Leading to . . . something. It sounded crazy, even to him.
Micki was right. He’d broken the rules of investigation. Left the scene. Disobeyed his senior officer’s command. Contaminated evidence. But he hadn’t become a Sixer to follow the bullshit rules of those with only five senses.
The street dead-ended. And so did the energy. Gone. Nothing but static.
Zach stopped. He looked left, then right, confused.
“FYI, dude. Not a nice neighborhood.”
“I lost it.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s gone.”
Her expression was incredulous. “What do you mean? You can’t just ‘lose it.’”
He understood her frustration. He felt it himself. He was as deep into unchartered territory as she was.
“Try again. Otherwise we’re heading back to the scene.”
He closed his eyes. Focused on his hand, the room key in it. The energy. Pulling it forth, as much by memory as sheer force of will. It gathered, swirled, raced up his arm. With the force of an ice pick to his skull, the static spiked. His eyes and hand popped open and the key dropped to the ground.
To the right.
“Harris? Holy Christ! Are you okay?”
He looked blankly at her. “Fine.”
“That wasn’t cool.”
“What?”
“I thought you were having a frickin’ seizure or something. Your eyes rolled back in your head.”
That’d never happened before. At least he didn’t think it had. Surely he would’ve freaked out somebody before now.
“Just trying to add a little levity to the moment.”
“Well, it didn’t work.” She frowned at him. “Don’t do it again.”
“I’ll do my best, boss. This way.”
They found The French Quarter Inn up a block on the right. More like the French Quarter Shit Hole, he thought, taking in the hotel’s dilapidated facade: faux wrought iron, water-stained stucco, peeling paint.
He’d bet tourists who booked the FQI expected charming, three star accommodations. Instead, they found this roach motel.
They entered. It felt damp, smelled musty. The kid behind the desk immediately pegged them as cops. He looked nervous.
“I’ll handle this,” Zach said.
No way she was going to argue with that one. “Have at him, partner.”
The kid’s name was Vince. Judging by his pimples and pallor he didn’t spend a lot of time outdoors. Video games and junk food, the twin curses of young America.
“Hey, Vince,” Zach said. He held up his badge. “I’m Detective Harris. This is my partner, Detective Dare.”
He looked from one to the other. He stopped on Zach. “What’s up?”
“You know a dude named Martin Ritchie?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Marty the Smarty?”