Free Tangled Souls by Jana Oliver Page A

one,” Seamus instructed.
    “Yeah, I know the number,” he mumbled. Almost anything Seamus heard, he repeated. Having a bright bird wasn’t always a good thing.
    O’Fallon opened the cage and fished the parrot off his perch. He fluttered for a bit as he adjusted to his new position and then worked his way up O’Fallon’s arm, one claw after the other.
    “About damned time!” he shouted again.
    “Yeah, yeah.” O’Fallon put the bird on the top of the recliner and returned to the cage to dish out food and water. The parrot babbled on as he made his trek, claw after claw, down the armrest.
    “Incoming!” Seamus called, and then imitated the sound of a mortar round with eerie accuracy.
    O’Fallon flinched. “No more History Channel for you.”
    Chores complete, he settled into the chair, placing the magazine and the Kingsgrave folder on the end table for later scrutiny. A large bowl of cereal, his evening meal, was the final touch. Tonight it was one of those high-fiber sorts that he detested but his doctor insisted he eat. It balanced out the pancakes he’d devoured for breakfast.
    “So, did you have a good day?” he asked the bird between crunchy mouthfuls. The parrot eyed him from the armrest, turning his head at an angle. In a claw was a bright orange carrot stub.
    “Bor-ing!” the creature squawked back. It was one of his favorite lines.
    “Mine wasn’t. Not boring in the least.” The moment O’Fallon put the empty bowl aside, Seamus settled into his hands for a bit of social grooming. It was their evening ritual—only now would the bird cease making an unholy racket.
    O’Fallon tapped the play button for his messages. He deleted the first three, saved the next two, and then reached the one he’d hoped for.
    Dr. Kathryn Bergstrom’s melancholy voice filled the room, echoing slightly; no doubt she’d been calling from her office in the morgue. Working late again.
    “Doug, I’m going to have to pass on tomorrow night. I have another meeting. Maybe we can get together later this week. Sorry.”
    “Bummer,” Seamus squawked.
    “Yeah, bummer.” It was the third time Kathryn had canceled one of their nights together. They were drifting apart, an inevitable fate when the chemistry wasn’t right.
    “Dammit,” he muttered.
    For once Seamus had no reply.
    When O’Fallon opened the folder to get his mind off his faltering love life, the witch’s eyes snared him again. Gavenia Kingsgrave had moved into a new condo five months ago. Her credit report showed she paid her bills on time and had only one credit card, which carried a small balance. Her job as a translator must pay well.
    “You’re not strung out in debt,” he murmured. “So why are you messing with Gregory Alliford? Cruising to be wife number two?” He stared at the woman’s face a little longer and finally put the folder aside. It would do no good to obsess. The answers would come at their own speed.
    His mind turned to his other case and his confrontation with Glass. How much should he tell Avery about his son’s situation?
    “Best not to meddle,” he said, but somehow that didn’t feel right. He looked toward the phone, wondering if the young man might call, perhaps drop him a hint as to where to find the rosary. It would save a lot of pawn-shop visits.
    “Maybe the kid has his blinders on too tight,” he said. “That would be a shame.”
    He opened the magazine and leaned back in the recliner, content to let things fall as they might.
    * * *
     
    “If you’re on the make, Ms. Kingsgrave, you need some fashion tips,” O’Fallon observed as his quarry caned her way to the front door of the Alliford house. Clothed in a long black skirt and a light-green blouse, she sported very little makeup, and her hair was in a long French braid. He personally thought she looked nice, but then he didn’t socialize with the upper crust, where three-thousand-dollar designer dresses and five-hundred-dollar shoes were the norm. What did