Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

Oliver Hensley had apparently killed a bartender.

The question on the table was whether or not he'd murdered her.

"Ms. Worth, thank you very much for coming." Oliver's attorney, Philippa Grayson, sat at the head of the Hensleys' dining table to my right. "We realize it's probably quite unusual for you to meet with clients on such short notice."

Philippa wore a designer suit and her glossy auburn hair looked as though she'd just walked out of a salon. I didn't get intimidated by such things, but I'd be the first to admit my off-the-rack slacks and top, lightly scuffed boots, and leather jacket would have fit in better at a bar than either her posh office or the Hensleys' beautiful home. Good thing I wasn't here to impress anyone with my outfit.

"Not as unusual as you might think," I said. "As a mage private investigator, sometimes moving quickly is a matter of survival." And since small talk was neither my thing nor getting us anywhere fast, I turned my attention to Philippa's client, who sat across the table from me with his wife.

I'd done a quick background check on Oliver and Gracie Hensley after getting off the phone with Philippa. Oliver was a thirty-two- year-old civil engineer. A year younger, Gracie worked part-time as a teacher's aide at a small magnet school. They'd graduated from the same high school and university. A perfectly ordinary couple with a nice house that appeared cozy and comfortable. And neither of them had so much as a parking ticket.

More than anything, I needed to get a better sense of who Oliver was, but he'd remained grim and pretty much silent since I arrived. His right hand was bandaged.

"How are you today, Mr. Hensley?" I asked.

"Call me Oliver." He forced a fleeting smile. "I'm glad to be out of jail and home, even if I've got an ankle monitor making sure I don't go any farther than our mailbox."

Judging by the shadows under his eyes, he hadn't been sleeping or eating much. Gracie looked no better.

Blond and blue-eyed, with a runner's lean physique, Oliver wore a button-up shirt and khakis, while red-haired Gracie had chosen a green top and beige slacks. They'd dressed up for this meeting, but it didn't take a PI to notice they'd basically just gone through the motions. Clearly, Gracie had been crying right before I arrived. No amount of makeup or eyedrops could hide her swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

Apparently I wasn't the only one not interested in small talk. "Did you get a chance to read through the materials I emailed?" Philippa asked.

"I did, thanks." I indicated my phone on the table in front of me. "I'd like to hear from Oliver what happened the day before yesterday—the day Madison Fernell died. Start when you got up that morning."

"Does he have to?" Gracie wiped her eyes with a tissue. "You've got the reports. He's already been through it so many times with so many people."

"I know." My voice remained businesslike. "But I need to hear the story directly from him."

She didn't appear to like my tone very much, but that was her problem, not mine. I was a long way from believing Oliver's version of events, much less deciding to take this case—even without taking into consideration how much was already on my plate.

Judging by Malcolm's expression and body language, my potential client faced an even more uphill battle to convince him than me. My ghost sidekick floated to my left, arms crossed, as he studied Oliver.

"It's okay, Gracie." Oliver squeezed his wife's hand, took a deep breath, and seemed to steel himself. "Ms. Worth is right. How can she know I'm telling the truth if I don't tell her everything that happened?" He glanced at Philippa. "Is it all right?"

She nodded. "Tell her everything you've told me."

With the green light from his attorney, Oliver took a long drink of coffee and settled in to tell his story. "As you probably know from what Philippa sent you, I'm a civil engineer. I work for a company called Piper Herrin downtown."

When he paused, I made a rolling gesture. "Go on."

"On the day all this happened, everything started out completely normal," he continued. "I got up as usual around five thirty, went for a run, and got to the office by eight. I had meetings in the morning, grabbed a quick lunch from a food truck in the square about two blocks from our building, and ate at my desk. During the afternoon I worked on reports in my office. I stayed at work until a little before six."

He definitely sounded like he'd been through this a dozen times, but not necessarily in the same way as if he'd rehearsed the speech. Having been in the hot seat at the cop shop myself more than once, I knew they made you tell the same damn story again and again hoping you'd slip up and change it.

"Did you encounter anyone during the day you thought was strange?" I asked, looking up from my notes. "Or notice anything at all out of the ordinary?"

Oliver rubbed his face with his non-bandaged hand. "You don't know how many times I have wracked my brain trying to think of anything. I've replayed the entire day more times than I can count. No, I didn't meet anyone on my morning run. No one came into our office who didn't work there. I only stepped outside to get lunch. The one person I talked to was the man who's been in that square selling sandwiches for the last two years. I walked straight to the square and back. I didn't talk to anyone on the way there or coming back—as far as I know."

I raised my eyebrows. "As far as you know?"

He trembled so badly he could barely lift his coffee mug. "If I don't remember hurting Madison Fernell, would I remember if I met whatever possessed me and made me do what I did?"

The shaking didn't look faked to me. Neither did the fear in his eyes when he added, "And how do I know it's not still here, hiding inside me? Jail was the worst place I've ever been, but I didn't want to come home. I was afraid I'd do something to my wife. I only let Gracie bond me out because I didn't feel safe there, even in a cell by myself."

"Don't say that." Gracie choked back a sob. "I know you'd never hurt me."

"Let's circle back to that later," I said before they got too emotional to talk. "So you got lunch, ate at your desk, and stayed in the office until about six o'clock. What did you do next?"

"I packed up my bag and left." He took a shaky breath. "On the way out of the building, I talked to three coworkers who were in the lobby, then walked two blocks to the parking garage. I took the stairs up to level five, unlocked my car, and put my bag in the back seat. I remember all of that as clear as day, down to what I was thinking about on the way to my car. But after I put my bag in my car…" Oliver closed his eyes and hung his head for a few beats before meeting my gaze again. "After that, I don't remember a damn thing. Almost two hours, totally gone. It's all a complete blank." He went quiet again.

Oliver certainly wasn't the first suspect to claim amnesia about a crime. I expected my gut to tell me he was lying, but it didn't. Instead of skepticism, my concern—and my curiosity—began to grow .

"When you came to, where were you?" I prompted.

"Some alley near the Eleventh Street bridge." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'd never been there before as far as I can remember. I don't drink, so I don't go to the bar district much. The first thing I remember after the blank is two delivery truck drivers yelling at me. I look down and I'm covered in blood and holding a knife, and I'm standing over someone's b-body. One of the delivery drivers tackled me and took the knife away."

Gracie put her head down on her folded arms, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Oliver rubbed her back and left his hand resting there. "I remember being arrested, but it's kind of a blur. I think I was in shock. Paramedics treated some cuts on my hand." He raised his bandaged right hand, which trembled. "The cops shoved me in the back of a patrol car and took me to the station. I sat in a room by myself for over an hour. I had no idea what was going on. When they finally came to talk to me, that's when I found out I was under arrest for murder."

So far he came across as legitimately grief-stricken, confused, and terrified. Could this be for real?

"What did you tell the detectives?" I asked.

"Same thing I told Philippa and you. I told them I didn't remember anything, but they didn't believe me. They really think I killed a woman I've never seen before in my life. I can't believe they think I'm a killer. I am not a killer ." His voice caught. "I swear I'm not. Something must have possessed me or made me do it."

"He's not the only one." Gracie raised her head and leaned forward. "There are three other cases, Ms. Worth. It's all been in the news. Nobody knows what's going on. The police don't know. They just keep arresting people. You've got to help us."

I had no doubt she believed in Oliver's innocence one hundred percent. Philippa had a lawyer's practiced poker face, so I couldn't tell if she bought the story or not. I supposed to her it didn't matter if he was lying or truthful—she'd defend him at trial to the best of her ability either way .

Nothing mattered more to Malcolm and me than Oliver's honesty, though. We had zero interest in helping a killer get away with murder.

At the moment, we had two salient and inescapable facts before us. First, Madison Fernell was dead, and from what the news reported, her death had been particularly savage.

Second, this murder fit a terrifying pattern. Three brutal assaults and now a murder had taken place in the past two weeks. Each of the alleged perpetrators claimed to have no motive, no connection to the victims, and no memory whatsoever of the attacks. Like many others in town, Malcolm and I had followed the cases in the news.

Despite our concern about the strange crime wave, we hadn't anticipated becoming involved. But now Malcolm and I found ourselves in Oliver and Gracie Hensley's dining room listening to a desperate man claim he had no memory of killing a twenty-six-year-old bartender on her way to work.

If these attacks were caused by something paranormal or supernatural, whoever or whatever was responsible had quickly developed a voracious appetite for brutality and blood.

"Which detectives did you speak to when you were arrested?" I asked. That information had not been included in Philippa's email.

She slid two business cards emblazoned with the police department's seal over to me.

I recognized the names immediately. "Diaz and Ferguson."

She regarded me with raised eyebrows. "You know them?"

"Yep." I tapped the cards on the table. "We go way back."

I didn't really want to think about the last time I'd seen Detective Ernie Diaz and his partner Joel Ferguson in person, which was in an interrogation room after the murder of my mentor Mark Dunlap. I'd always gotten along all right with Diaz, but Ferguson had disliked me from the moment we'd crossed paths. I wasn't sure if it was personal or not. He didn't seem to like mages or supes in general.

I returned the cards to Philippa. "So, Oliver, you told the detectives you had no memory of killing Madison. What else did you tell them?"

"I told them I'd never met her and I certainly had no reason to kill her." He sighed. "They don't believe me."

"I can't blame them for that." I made my voice and expression harsh to see how he would react. It was one thing to calmly tell a story, and very much another to show the right emotions during a confrontation. "A lot of suspects claim they don't remember anything about their crimes. The cops and prosecutors know it's a lie every time. So do juries."

Philippa didn't react, but Gracie bristled. "Hey. Don't call him a liar."

I ignored her and focused on Oliver. "I don't believe the ‘I blacked out' excuse any more than Diaz, Ferguson, and the DA do. So tell me why I should believe you."

"I don't know how to convince anyone." He sagged in his seat. "All the evidence anyone can see points straight to me. I was holding the knife. I cut my hand when I…I stabbed her. I was covered in her blood." His voice broke.

While he struggled to regain his composure, Gracie leaned her head against his shoulder and held his uninjured hand in both of hers. Philippa shuffled papers.

Meanwhile, I watched him, looking for any tells that I was being bullshitted—and finding none.

Finally, Oliver met my gaze again. "Ms. Worth, I may go to prison for the rest of my life if I can't find a way to prove my story. All I can do is look you in the eye and swear I didn't know her and I don't remember anything between the parking garage and getting tackled by a delivery driver. I did not murder Madison Fernell." He said it without looking away or giving any indication he was lying.

I was no werewolf or vampire who could smell or sense deceit, but he might be telling the truth.

I wasn't the only one warming up to the idea. Malcolm touched my shoulder so he could talk to me in my head. I hate to say it, but I kinda believe him , he said.

Kinda, as in fifty-fifty? I asked.

My ghost sidekick waggled his hand. More like eighty-twenty in favor of believing him. That's a big change for me. I came in here feeling ten-ninety the other way.

He let go of my shoulder and drifted back. We tended to keep our telepathic conversations short in front of other people so I didn't sit silently staring into space like I'd gone catatonic.

"Ms. Worth." Philippa jotted something on her notepad and then tapped her pen. "Hypothetically, if Oliver is telling the truth and he was either possessed or magically compelled to do something against his will, what possible evidence might we find?"

"The first step would be to look for trace on Oliver," I said. "Unfortunately, two days have passed so we may be SOL there. Most trace fades quickly. Some magic practitioners are also capable of deliberately dispersing magic trace. If I do find some, I can try to capture it. In some cases, I may even be able to track it to its source or at least get some clues about whose it is."

For the first time since I'd arrived, I saw a glimmer of hope in Oliver and Gracie's expressions. I held up my hand. "That's only if I find something," I cautioned. "I'm a mage, not a magician. I can't make trace appear if there isn't any. And the law is pretty limited on what kinds of magic-based evidence are admissible at either grand jury proceedings or trials. My testimony would have to be weighed just like any other expert witness talking about evidence and its interpretation."

Gracie scooted forward on her chair in excitement. "That's something you've done before?"

"Yes, a few times." I'd tried to avoid it as much as possible because until recently keeping a low profile had been my chief concern. Even now I didn't want to make any headlines. "It's always an uphill battle. A lot of people are very skeptical about magical evidence. To be persuasive, in my experience it needs to be corroborated with other mundane—as in, non-magical—evidence and testimony."

"Which would also be your job to find," Philippa interjected. "Other than trace on Oliver, what else might we look for?"

"I'd visit the places Oliver went that day, especially the parking garage," I told them. "Again, looking for trace or other indications of magic and supernatural or paranormal influences. If someone did take control of him and removed their trace from his body, maybe they didn't worry about covering their tracks wherever they attacked him. I've found that to be the case before. After that, I have other lines of inquiry to pursue. We can go more into that if we decide to move forward."

"Thank you for the clarification." Philippa turned to the Hensleys. "Oliver, would you and your wife like to discuss this privately before we make a decision?"

"I don't think we need to talk about it." Despite my many caveats, Oliver looked like a drowning man who'd just grabbed a life preserver. "I have nothing whatsoever to lose by hiring Ms. Worth."

"You might." I deliberately made my voice cold. I wanted one more shot at eliciting a reaction. "Because if I find evidence that supports the charge of murder or disproves your claims, I will turn that over to the police."

Whatever Gracie's response to my promise-slash-threat was, I didn't notice. If Oliver reacted in any way that made me think he had something to hide, I planned to walk out of the house now and not look back.

Oliver didn't blink at all, however. "You won't find anything," he promised. "I did not do this. It might have been my body, but it wasn't me who killed that poor girl. Somehow I have to prove it. Please help me."

"Please," Gracie echoed. "I've known Ollie since the tenth grade. We've been married for twelve years. He's not capable of hurting someone."

At this moment, if Malcolm had asked me how certain I felt about Oliver's honesty, I would have revised what I'd said earlier to eighty-twenty in favor of his truthfulness.

The only way I could be sure, or at least less uncertain, was to take the case and see what I could dig up. If Oliver was innocent, he didn't deserve to go to prison for the rest of his life. And most critically, someone or something might be committing terrible crimes and using unsuspecting people as puppets to do it. The thought made my stomach churn.

To make matters worse, it didn't sound like the police were interested in supernatural explanations, even with four alleged perpetrators all claiming the same thing. Those facts made Oliver's situation a perfect case for Malcolm and me—if I could find a way to deal with the case and the Vampire Court mess at the same time.

Before I could say anything, though, the crash of breaking glass and a heavy thud from the direction of the living room made us all jump.

Malcolm immediately zipped toward the sound. "Stay here," I told the others as I jumped up and ran after him.

In the living room, I found one of the large picture windows and a glass side table shattered. The cause was immediately evident: a large brick that had also bounced off the sofa and ended up on the floor. Oddly, I saw no sign of Malcolm. The reason why became apparent when tires squealed out front and a vehicle sped away.

By the time I got out the front door to the porch, the street was empty. Unfortunately for the brick-thrower, however, I had a dead guy ace up my sleeve.

Malcolm appeared at my side. "Blue four-door car with two people in it," he reported. "A blonde woman was driving. Big dude with a shaved head threw the brick and then jumped back in the car before it took off."

"Did you get the make and model of the car and the plate number?"

"No, I just waved as they went by." He sighed. "Yes, I got the plate. "

He followed me back to the living room. We found Philippa waiting. "Mrs. Hensley's very upset," she said. "I told Oliver to go upstairs with her while we sort this out."

"I got a description of the car and a plate number," I told her. "My guess is it's likely to be friends or family of the victim."

"That would be the logical assumption. We'll let the police get to the bottom of it."

Malcolm gave me the information about the car and its plate number. I relayed what he said to Philippa. "Can I ask how you managed to see the car's plate from the house?" she asked as she copied the info down.

"I made it out to the yard just in time to see it."

"Hmm." She eyed me over her reading glasses. "You'd be willing to testify to that?"

"Yep."

"All right." She shut her notepad. "Once Oliver gets back downstairs, we'll call the police about the vandalism. Am I correct in thinking you're willing to take the case?"

"We need to discuss exactly what it is you want me to do and talk money, but yes," I said. "Just so I'm clear, I'm open-minded going in, but I'm definitely not as sure of Oliver's innocence as Gracie is. I meant what I said about the evidence I find—assuming I find any."

"I understand. Aaron speaks very highly of you and I trust his judgment." She leaned against the doorframe and took off her glasses. "Just so I'm clear, my reputation is pristine and I want to keep it that way. The only kind of investigation I'm interested in is a legal and ethical one, and the only private investigator I'd encourage Oliver to hire is an honest one. Other attorneys play fast and loose. They justify the means by the ends. I do not."

Yeah, no kidding. My impression of Philippa Grayson was that she dotted every I and crossed each T as deliberately and precisely as a surgeon making cuts.

"I did pick up on that about you," I said.

"Good." She nailed me with the kind of direct stare she probably used on witnesses during cross-examination. "So, why lie to me about seeing the plate?"

Fair enough question, given what she'd just said about shooting straight. How she'd sniffed me out, though, I didn't know.

"My ghost partner saw it and reported back to me," I said. "He can't testify under oath, but I can. His word is mine."

If the news that I had a ghost with me startled her in any way, I didn't see it. "All right," she said with a brief smile. In terms of friendliness, I got the impression that was as good as it was likely to get.

I spotted Oliver coming down the stairs. "Is your wife all right?" I asked.

"She will be. She just needs a minute. The last few days have been really, really hard on her." When he joined us in the living room, he saw the damage and seemed to deflate before my eyes. "People hate me now." He said it so quietly that I wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or us.

"I'm afraid so," Philippa said. She didn't quite sound sympathetic, but her expression showed disgust at the attack. "We need to inform the police about this."

Oliver took a step back as if to put physical distance between himself and the idea. "I don't want to do that. The cops already tore the house apart looking for evidence. We just got everything cleaned up and put away right before you and Ms. Worth arrived. And Gracie…I don't know if she can take more detectives coming through here and questioning us. I don't know if I can."

"That's what I'm here for," Philippa reminded him. "You won't have to say a word to them. You didn't witness the vandalism. Ms. Worth is the witness."

I made a face. Since I found out they were the lead detectives in the case, I'd been thinking about my strategy for dealing with my old detective buddy Ernie Diaz and his very unfriendly partner Joel Ferguson. I'd definitely wanted to keep my snooping under the detectives' radar as long as possible .

Those plans had just gone out the window—both literally and figuratively—thanks to the vandals. When Diaz and Ferguson found out a brick had landed in Oliver's living room, they'd be on the scene faster than you could say probable cause . They'd know from the jump Oliver hired me to find evidence that might exonerate their suspect. Just what I needed: pissed-off detectives dogging my every move.

Nothing to do but make the best of a bad situation. "Once the cops get here, how long can you keep them away from Oliver and me?" I asked Philippa.

"As long as you need." She raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Why?"

"I need to see if I can find any trace on Oliver before the cops tie me up asking about the vandals. Time is ticking. Whatever trace he might still have is evaporating as we speak."

She turned to Oliver. "Are you comfortable with this plan?"

He sighed. "If you are, then I guess I am too."

"Go upstairs with Ms. Worth, then," she said. "I'll make the call to the police. Do as she asks so she can examine you, but don't answer any questions from anyone, including her, unless I'm present."

I'd been around defense attorneys enough to not take that personally. We both had jobs to do.

Malcolm touched my arm. You good with this plan?

With checking him for trace, yes , I said wryly. Dealing with Diaz right after that, no, not really, but what choice do we have?

We could walk. There are other mage detectives out there. Let them deal with Tweedledee and Tweedledum-dum.

You're not wrong, but now I want to know for myself if Oliver's story is true.

Me too. He floated back and forth. Looks like we've got a case.