7

Now that Beatrice’s book, Memoir of a Psychic: I Told You So, has been sitting on the bestseller list for almost a year (in it she references Gus too many times for his liking, his modesty, and his privacy), her phone doesn’t stop ringing. Everybody wants to meet Beatrice, know Beatrice, ask Beatrice, and tell Beatrice, and that doesn’t even include the media. The media is relentless. Everybody wants a piece of her. She’s doing a media tour but that’s only resulted in more requests for consultations from prospective clients. Beatrice’s assistant, Hannah, a sweet and misty-eyed lady of eighty-eight, can’t keep up with all the requests. So, when people can’t book with Beatrice they ask for Gus. Which would explain why his client list is growing rapidly and almost uncontrollably, and why his phone is ringing at 7:00 a.m. with a chirping Hannah who needs to refer a client.

“The woman sounded urgent, Gus. She says she needs to see someone soon. Like today!” Hannah gushes. “She actually requested you, said she read about you in the book and remembers your name from a case on the news.”

Gus feels the first twist of a headache in his skull. He had begged Alex to keep his name out of the news, but more than once the detective had dropped Gus’s name to give Gus credit he had not asked for and, no doubt, to give the chief and the sergeant the chagrin Alex had thought they deserved for being pricks. Mentioning the psychic always gave the brass the grief of dubious inquiries from a skeptical public.

“I don’t go back to my real job until tomorrow,” he tells Hannah. “So have her come by at 10:15.”

She offers him a mwah and disconnects.

So he dashes into the shower and then into the kitchen, puts on the coffee and lets it brew while he takes Ivy for her morning walk. She’s in good shape, this dog, still rushing and yelping at the birds, still inclined to leap at Gus just because she can’t get enough of play. She’s seven years old. The vet says she’s one of the healthiest golden retrievers he’s ever seen, and he says Gus gets all the credit. Again, the credit! Gus doesn’t understand all the clamor about credit. Who really gives a shit? He remembers his old days on the beach, meeting a Buddhist surfer dude who told him the difference between the biggest wave and the best wave; the biggest wave was for the ego while the best wave was for the soul. The ego needs the credit for attempting the biggest wave, but ego surfers often miss waves of enlightenment that rise around them all day long. They were both a little stoned at the time, but Gus remembers the beauty of being in the moment with any wave he chose, closing his eyes as he rode the crest, being there, alone with the sun, being there, drowning in the golden light that seeped through his lids, being there, if only for a moment without a single thought, without a single word, without a memory or a plan. He sailed in transcendental bliss. He learned Surfing as Meditation from this Buddhist buddy who one day gave him a hug for no reason and a soaking wet slap on the back, and never returned to the beach. He simply vanished from Gus’s life. Gus wonders if he ever truly existed, or whether he’d been a visitor from Gus’s imagination, or a vision, or a bit of both. It was more than twenty years ago. He can’t remember, through the haze of those days, the name of that Buddhist surfer.

Her name is Aaliyah. “Two ‘A’s at the beginning, one at the end,” she tells him. She’s punctual, arriving precisely at his door at 10:15. He’s on his second cup of coffee. He offers to brew more for her but she declines. They sit in his office and Gus observes her impossible face. He knows nothing about makeup and can’t infer anything about cosmetics but assumes the flawlessness of her skin is natural. Her brown eyes are lighter than Billie’s; instead of dark moons, they’re orange flames. Like a tiger. She smiles and Gus is in that light again, on that wave, drowning for a moment. Aaliyah Jones is a messenger. Gus can see it. He knows it. She is here for answers but she comes with answers. She crosses her legs, her long, thin legs. She’s a foal. With turquoise-beaded anklets.

“Welcome,” he says.

“Do you always do the once-over of your clients?” she asks.

I’m sorry?

“You undressed me with your eyes.”

Gus feels the color drain in a whoosh from his face. “Oh no,” he begs, “no, no, no. I promise I wasn’t doing that. I’m sorry if that felt like undressing, but you’re a new client.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was trying to read you. And I guess that feels like undressing. I apologize for making you uncomfortable.”

She laughs, like the joke’s on him. “Never mind. It takes a lot to make me uncomfortable.”

Gus nods, allowing the blood to return. “I see,” he mutters to buy another moment. “What brings you here this morning?”

“It’s important,” she says, sitting up, squaring her shoulders, balletlike. “I might know something about a murder.”

That lands like a big box of surprise. Gus swallows hard and looks at the box between them. It’s wrapped and bowed. Like a gift, but not. Unexpected gifts.

“What are you looking at?” the woman asks.

“Nothing. Everything. I see things differently than you,” he tells her. “That’s why you’re here. Tell me about the murder.”

“It’s been all over the news. The socialite who was shot in her home, did you see it?”

“I’ve been traveling for a couple of weeks. Just got home, so no . . .” She leans forward, her athletic arms folding, elbows to her knees. “Oh. I’m a news reporter. On TV, Channel 4.”

“Wow. You are a messenger,” Gus chants.

She tilts her perfect face. “What is that supposed to mean? Have you never seen a black reporter before?”

Oh God. Gus puts his head in his hands and groans. “Of course I have. I’m sorry you misunderstood. I just got a vibe about you when you first sat down. I sensed you were full of knowledge, or information, or something materially important. It would make sense that you’re a journalist.”

“Really?”

He looks up. “Yeah. Really. Maybe we should start over.”

She laughs, again at his expense. “It’s okay. I was half-kidding.” “Half?”

“There are more Circle Ks in the valley than black people,” she says. “We do sometimes feel alien.”

“Ah, I see. Of course.”

“Just so you know, I didn’t cover the murder. I was working on something else. But some of my colleagues did. All the stations and newspapers did. She was kind of well-known.”

“And you think you know why she died?”

“I think I might know some background that others might not consider,” she says. “I don’t know what to do.”

She’s a tough one. Aaliyah Jones may be a messenger, all right, but her vibe is an otherwise complicated mix of danger and thrill he can’t quite fathom. It’s too soon. They’ve only just met.

“I’m not sure what you should do either,” he concedes. “Do you want me to visualize what you should do? Or do you want to tell me what you know, and I can try to intuit whether it’s really linked to the murder you’re talking about?”

“The latter would be perfect, but I can’t tell you what I know, at least not yet. I just can’t,” she tells him. “So, maybe the first thing. Maybe you should just visualize what it would look like for me to go to the cops.”

He sits back. “Okay, but first I have some basic questions about you.”

She sits back, as well, apparently sensing Gus’s ease. “I’m ready.” He asks how many years she’s been a reporter. Seven. Has she always worked in Phoenix? No. Where has she worked before? Jacksonville, Florida. Albany, New York. He asks if she’s from Phoenix originally.

“No,” she says. “I came here for the job three years ago. I was born and raised in Atlanta.”

“And your family is still there . . .”

“Wow, you really are psychic.”

“Uh, no. Just a good guess.”

“I know,” she says.

She knows. She’s messing with him. Powerful woman. She’s all electric around him, like a storm. She’s thunder and lightning and a swirling sea.

He takes a deep breath, exhales, and says, “What’s stopping you from going to the cops with your information?”

She narrows her eyes and says, “Journalistic ethics. I’m not against helping the police. Reporters will informally coordinate with cops from time to time. But I’m not sure if I can reveal what I know to them because it could reveal my sources, and these sources fear for their lives.”

“Fear for their lives . . .” Gus nods as he tries to conjure up a vibe. He shakes his head. “I think you need to wait a few days before you do anything, because the law, the investigation, moves much more slowly than you see on Law & Order. And you need to see what information becomes public. What becomes public could relieve you of your need to come forward. Also, I fear for your sources,” he tells her. “I’m getting a strong vibe about that.”

Even as she goes, as she rises to her feet later and moves to the door, the ballet of her arms as wispy as reeds of Ocotillo in a crisp desert wind, even as she retreats down the driveway and slides into her car, even as she disappears around the corner, Gus is standing there, still standing there, sensing strong vibes about a dangerous wave that’s coming for people who are nowhere near the sea.