Free PsyCop 2: Criss Cross by Jordan Castillo Price Page B

bluesey and soulful, like a woman with a knockout voice humming to herself while she worked in her kitchen.
     
    The soul music quieted as a hand parted the beaded curtain. A man’s hand, wrist stacked with black rubber bracelets and silver on every finger.
     
    “Carolyn!” he cried, and the rest of him (which was equally as decked out as the hand he’d led with) burst through the curtain. Crash was maybe thirty, with spiked-up, bleached white hair and a ring through his nose. He wasn’t what I’d imagined one of Carolyn’s friends would look like. He was hot. Not that I thought anything would happen between the two of us. Cheating is the top entry on my “no” list, and I was in a relationship. “I had a premonition that I’d see you today,” he said.
     
    “No you didn’t,” said Carolyn dryly.
     
    Crash clucked his tongue, then looked at me, crossed his tribal-tattooed arms over his chest, and raised an eyebrow. “Hey,” I said, doing my best to seem like I wasn’t in a ghost-panic.
     
    “Hey, yourself.”
     
    “This is my friend, Victor,” said Carolyn. “We came to see you about healing.”
     
    Crash pulled a rough, handmade-looking bowl out from under the counter and placed it on top. It was full of sand. I tried to imagine what he’d use it for: some kind of ritualistic cleansing? And then he lit up a cigarette and flicked the spent match into the sand. “No ‘Hi, how are you, I haven’t seen you in, what, a month? What’ve you been up to?’ That’s so cold.”
     
    “I’m sure you’re devastated,” Carolyn said.
     
    I wondered if all of their friendly banter was this chipper. If so, I hoped I’d never get either of them mad at me.
     
    Crash crooked his finger at me. “I take it you’re the volunteer from the audience?”
     
    The humming resumed from beyond the curtain, loud and clear, and although I’ve never been much for R&B gospel type music, I really liked it. I stepped forward, just as much to catch more of that music as to let Crash have a look at me.
     
    Crash held up a hand. “That’s close enough,” he said quietly.
     
    I stopped, and wondered if I was so contaminated that even a guy named “Crash” couldn’t deal with my proximity.
     
    “What is it?” Carolyn demanded. “Do you see something?”
     
    “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Little Miss PsyCop. I’m not in high gear all the time like you are.”
     
    I tried to settle myself. If he thought Carolyn was in high gear, then I was practically in orbit.
     
    “Vic is psychic,” Carolyn said.
     
    “Do you mind?” asked Crash. He held his hand palm-out toward her, instead. “I can do it myself.”
     
    “I’m just trying to help,” Carolyn said, a trace of poutiness in her voice. Crash stared at me, alternatingly gnawing at his thumbnail and taking drags off his Camel Light. I stood there like a lump. Carolyn watched Crash watching me.
     
    “He’s a medium,” she muttered, like she just couldn’t keep it in.
     
    “A big overblown TV antenna. Yeah. I get it.”
     
    Well. It was the first time anyone’d ever called me that .
     
    “Something’s unusual about his reception,” Carolyn told him. “That’s why we came to see you.”
     
    “Maybe you should’ve taken him to Radio Shack.” He squinted at me, considering.
     
    “If you’re not up to it, just say so,” Carolyn said. “It’s not like you’ve got the only metaphysical store in Chicago.”
     
    Crash huffed a little and then looked at me. “Only the best one,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. “Okay, c’mere.”
     
    I shuffled forward another step and he grabbed me by the sleeve of my jean jacket, dragging me halfway across the plexiglassPlexiglas countertop. “Hold still,” he said. “It’s not like I can see the problem written on your forehead.”
     
    I was close enough to see his eyes, pale green, like jade. The bluesy humming seemed to intensify as I stared into them. He flashed a tongue