Sense of Deception: A Psychic Eye Mystery - Softcover

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Real-life psychic Victoria Laurie is the New York Times bestselling author of the Psychic Eye Mysteries, including A Fatal Fortune and Deadly Forecast, and the Ghost Hunter Mysteries, including No Ghouls Allowed and The Ghoul Next Door. She lives in Michigan, with two spoiled dachshunds, Lilly and Toby, and one opinionated parrot named Doc.

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THE PSYCHIC EYE MYSTERY SERIES

OBSIDIAN

For Lilly, who was the whole of my heart

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

There was chaos in the courtroom as I was dragged kicking and screaming from it by two beefy bailiffs. After I landed a pretty good kick to someone’s kneecap, the number of bailiffs “escorting” me out of the courthouse increased by two. It would’ve been humiliating if I’d paused long enough in my struggles to consider it. Mostly I yelled my head off and wrenched my limbs back and forth until one of the big and beefies put a can of Mace right next to my nose and threatened to let loose. I piped down quickly after that and settled for glaring hard at my captors before being handed off to a couple of deputies. The deputies made quick work of handcuffing me and placing me into a van for a short road trip to a large loading dock, where I was unloaded and moved inside a big ugly building. After that I was put through the process of getting my butt thrown in jail.

On the plus side, there wasn’t a strip search (thank the baby Jesus!), but I did have a panicky moment during which I seriously regretted my decision to go commando that morning. Some days it just pays to wear underwear.

Still, I had to give up my dress slacks and blouse for an orange jumpsuit, and I don’t care what anyone says: Orange is so not the new black.

After demanding my right to make one phone call for the eleventh time, I was handcuffed and led down a dark, narrow, claustrophobia-inducing hallway to a bank of phones attached to a wall. The husky woman in uniform who’d led me there growled, “You have ten minutes,” before moving a little way down the hall to eye her watch and then glower at me.

Charming.

After squinting meanly at her retreating form, I turned to the phones and called my hubby. “Rivers,” he said when he picked up the line.

“Hi, honey, it’s me.”

“Edgar,” he said with honeyed tones, using his favorite nickname for me. I love the sound of my husband’s voice. So rich and seductive. It soothes me like a morning cup of coffee, heavy on the cream and sugar. “How was court?”

“Oh, you know. Not quite what I was expecting.”

“Was it tough on the stand?”

“A bit.”

“Yeah, this defense counsel of Corzo’s . . . he’s a slick bastard. Did you get beat up a little?”

I swallowed hard. “Um, yes, actually. You could say that it went exactly like that.”

“Aw, dollface,” Dutch said. “Don’t let ’em get you down. You did great on this case. Gaston even pulled me aside yesterday to say how happy he is with the work we did to nail Corzo. And, between us, I think he’s especially proud of you.”

I winced. Dutch’s boss’s boss was Bill Gaston. Regional director for the Central Texas FBI office. Former CIA. Totally great guy, until you got on his bad side. Once on said bad side, you might as well pack a bag and leave town. Quickly. “Speaking of Gaston,” I said, trying to keep the waver out of my voice, “could you maybe get him to come down to the county jail for me?”

There was a lengthy pause; then (after adopting a slight Cuban accent) my hubby said, “Edgar? What did you do?”

I took a deep breath. “I sorta outed the judge to a packed courtroom and then he attacked me and then I was thrown in jail for contempt of court.”

Another (longer) pause. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding.”

“Really?”

“No.”

There was a muffled sound, which I suspected was my husband trying to quiet a laugh. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

I opened my mouth to give him the 411, but at that moment the guard tapped her watch and gave me a stern(er) look. “Actually, honey, maybe you should just call Matt Hayes. He can give you the play-by-play. But please also call Gaston. I have a feeling we’re going to need his clout to get me out of here.”

I thought I heard my hubby stifle another laugh with a cough. After clearing his throat, he said, “I’ll call Gaston and Matt. We’ll have you home for dinner, sweethot.”

Dutch had slipped into his best Bogie impression for that last bit, and it actually made me feel a little better, even though he thought my getting tossed in the clink was high-larious.

After hanging up with Dutch, I shuffled down the hallway to the waiting guard, and she led me by the arm back down the corridor, to a window with a redheaded, freckle-faced inmate standing ready behind a counter in a little enclosed room with lots of neatly packed supplies behind her. I was pushed up to the window and a pillow, sheets, a thin blanket, and some toiletries were shoved into my chest. “We’re out of toothpaste,” she said, as if I’d already noticed and had copped an attitude.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Are you on your period?” she asked.

I felt heat in my cheeks. I’m a bit modest when it comes to discussing bodily functions. “Not presently.”

“Good. We’re out of tampons, too.”

“Got any aspirin?”

“Yeah. You got a headache?” she said, reaching behind her for a small packet of one-dose Tylenol.

“Yep.”

“Here, but that’s all you get,” she said firmly before jotting down the added item on a clipboard in front of her.

“Thank you very much.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away. I wondered if we’d end up braiding each other’s hair later.

Stern Eyes then led me to a set of doors, which required us to get buzzed through. Once we were through the doors, the conversations and shouts and jeers on either side of the hallway from the inmates currently jailed there echoed and bounced off the concrete walls like a mad game of Pong.

I tried not to tremble as Stern Eyes pulled me along, but I might have let out a whimper or two.

I’d been in jail before. Trust me on this: It’s not a place you ever want to be. It’s loud, it’s jarring, and it smells like a mix of Pine-Sol, BO, and perhaps a soupçon of desperation.

Plus, it’s dangerous. I mean, it’s literally wall-to-wall criminals. Think about that the next time you want to jaywalk. (Or out a federal judge to a packed courtroom . . . ahem.)

Stern Eyes walked me down the length of the open section of the jail, and I ignored the catcalls and whistles from cells to my right and left. I suspected that new prisoners got paraded in front of the other inmates like this on a regular basis. It was meant to scare the newbies—and make them easy for the guards to handle initially—and I can tell you for a fact that it’s effective.

About midway down the length of the open section, Stern Eyes tugged my arm and directed me to the right. “You’re here,” she said, coming to a stop in front of a closed cell door with only one inmate inside. Using the radio mic at her shoulder, she ordered the cell door to be opened, and after a rather obnoxious buzzing sound, it slid to the right. She didn’t even wait for it to get all the way open—she merely gave my back a hard shove and I stumbled forward, barely able to stop myself before my head hit the top bunk on the right side. “You have a new roommate,” Stern Eyes said. It took me a minute to realize she wasn’t talking to me.

I...