Paranormal Talent Agency Omnibus Page 21

  While I’d been admiring his good looks (occupational hazard as a movie producer), he’d continued to talk to his online audience. The likes and the comments floating by on the screen thrilled me.

  Chad frowned, and that drew my attention.

  “I swear I just heard something.” He turned in his chair to check behind him, then back to the laptop camera with a shrug. “Must be the wind knocking a tree branch into a window,” he said with a half-smile.

  But, now I was frowning. Yes, the weather could differ drastically across the Valley; however the air in my part of Vegas remained dead calm. Could it really be that windy near him? I leaned closer to the screen where Chad had continued to discuss the recently concluded film.

  He stopped, his brown eyes narrowing as he turned again to look behind him. “I swear I heard someone. What the heck?”

  A mix of comments appeared below the video. People worried for his safety, making fun of Chad for being so jumpy, or flat out accusing him of making this up to increase likes and the likelihood of going viral. Suddenly, loud popping noises came from my laptop. They didn’t sound like gunshots, so I quickly dismissed the comments on the video warning Chad that he was about to get shot. Though they did sound familiar. Almost like firecrackers. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the sound reminded me of.

  Chad faced the screen, his olive skin paling. “Do you guys hear that? What is it?”

  The comments came fast and furious now.

  “Get out of the house now!!! This is how someone in LA died!!!”

  Wait? What? I tried to grab the user name of the person who typed the comment, but it was already gone, scrolled up and away.

  The firecracker noises were louder now and more people were commenting that Chad should call the police, that it couldn’t be normal. The young man, on the other hand, seemed frozen in his chair, wide eyes staring at the computer screen. I didn’t know if he was reading any of the scrolling comments. I wondered if he saw the one about Los Angeles.

  I perched on the edge of my seat, cellphone ready, preparing to call Chad, when the noise abruptly ceased. In the silence, Chad’s face relaxed for a mere second before his eyes bugged out and an unseen force pulled him backward from the chair.

  My jaw fell open. I stared at the room now visible behind where Chad had been sitting. The comments below the video became frantic. I pressed his number on my phone. I didn’t hear it ringing on his end (he listened to me and turned the ringer off, I guessed). When his voicemail engaged, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This couldn’t be good.

  “Hi, you have reached Chad Johnson. If you are interested in auditioning or hiring me for a gig, please call my agent, Catherine Rodham, at Peterson Talent Agency, 702-555-6735. If you need to reach me, you know what to do after the beep.”

  I stayed silent for a moment, speechless in the face of what I felt fairly confident was going to turn out to be a very bad thing. “Chad, are you okay? It’s Mia Fynn, your producer, in case you don’t recognize my voice. Or missed my name on the caller ID,” I added with a mirthless laugh, babbling. “What did I just see? Call me when you get this. I’m calling the police and will meet them at your place.”

  While leaving the message, I realized I should have called the police first. I did so now.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  I gave the CliffsNotes version to the dispatcher of what I had seen and she logged the information into her system. I heard a sharp intake of breath before she unexpectedly stated I was the fifth call in the past few minutes to report concern for the young man.

  “Did anyone give you his address?”

  The dispatcher said yes but asked me for it anyway. I provided the address and told her I’d meet the police officers at the location. She started to tell me that was not a good idea. I thanked her for the commentary and pressed End on my cell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ten minutes later, I pulled up to Chad’s apartment complex off West Spring Mountain Road and parked my ruby red Mazda Miata behind a black and white SUV, lights still strobing. I counted at least a half-dozen vehicles as I approached a uniformed officer on the path to Chad’s apartment.

  “Sorry, no one is allowed through,” the officer intoned when I tried to step past him on the concrete walkway.

  I peered around him, eager to catch a glimpse of someone I might know. I’d lived in Vegas a long time, maybe I’d get lucky. There!

  “Catherine!” I called out to the willowy blond standing next to an attractive man in jeans. She glanced in my direction, half-heartedly waved, and I could tell by her expression I was right to expect a bad outcome.

  The officer blocking my way frowned slightly. “Please stay where you are.”

  Catherine appeared engaged in a deep conversation with the man in jeans, so I realized I would have to handle this on my own. I hated doing it, but desperate times, and all that.

  I put on my widest smile. “Officer, I really need to get to my friend.” I watched as his frown faltered and his eyes took on the expected glaze.

  “I have my orders,” he said in a monotone, and I nodded sympathetically.

  “Of course, you do. But, it’s okay. Isn’t it.” This last I stated rather than asked.

  Slack-jawed, the officer stepped to the side, allowing me passage. I hurried along before the enchantment broke, and joined Catherine and the man, who I realized was law enforcement, judging from the shiny detective’s badge clipped to his jeans. My eyes wandered lower and I snapped my gaze up. Good grief.

  Catherine enveloped me in a hug, easy since she was several inches taller than me, even without her heels. “He’s dead, Mia. He’s dead.” Her voice cracked and I tightened my embrace.

  I felt eyes on me as I released Catherine.

  “And who might you be?”

  I turned to the voice and watched, bemused, as the detective looked back and forth between me and the officer who abandoned his orders by letting me through. The detective’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

  “Don’t be mad at the officer. I simply explained that I needed to get through,” I answered the unasked question.

  “Why did you need to get through? Who are you?” he repeated as he took in my appearance.

  Inwardly I sighed. Although I was about 200 years old (after a while, who really cared to keep track?) my appearance suggested early-thirties, probably about the same as the detective. I didn’t have your typical appearance; my high cheekbones could cut glass and my electric green eyes have been known to stop conversations.

  Plus, there was my hair. I watched his eyes move over the emerald green waves that flowed to my waist. I checked him out as well before answering his questions. He looked like a world-weary Captain America, frankly. Blue eyes. Close cut blond hair. A cute crooked nose, probably from being broken at least once. Nice body, maybe a surfer, now or in the past. And, as we silently assessed each other, I felt an itch to touch his lips, his arms, his—what??

  “I’m Mia Fynn,” I answered with a glance at Catherine, to break the contact with the detective.

  “You knew the victim,” he responded, his eyes softening when he saw mine pool with unshed tears.

  “I produced the movie he was promoting.”

  “This is Detective Jacob Dawson,” Catherine introduced the surfer cop. “He’s been assigned to investigate Chad’s death.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out, Ms. Fynn.”

  “Please, call me Mia,” I said, extending my hand. He automatically reached to grip mine in response, though his attention was elsewhere. Until our skin touched. I pulled my hand abruptly from his as our eyes met.

  “Static electricity,” I offered with a bark of laughter.

  “Uh huh,” he responded, his pupils dilating.

  Catherine seemed unaware of the sexual tension between me and Jacob. I seized the opportunity
to address her. “I take it you saw the Facebook Live.”

  She nodded. “I was describing it to Jacob when you walked up.”

  “You saw it too, Ms—Mia.”

  Tears threatened again. Catherine and I walked the detective through exactly what we both watched. Jacob frowned when we got to the part about Chad being pulled backward by an unseen force

  “An invisible killer?”

  “We didn’t see anybody,” I answered and Catherine agreed. “What did you find in his apartment?” I gestured toward the two-story stucco building behind us.

  Jacob stared at me for a long minute. “Why not? It’ll be all over the news by tonight, I’m sure.” He paused again, gathering his thoughts. “We found the victim – Chad – deceased upon our arrival. We had to break into the apartment.”

  “Everything was locked? No forced entry?”

  Again, Jacob stared at me for a moment. This time Catherine didn’t miss the tension, but it was not sexual, it was distrust.

  “Mia and I really like those forensics shows,” she inserted with a forced laugh.

  “No. No forced entry. There was one door in and out. Locked. Windows were closed and locked. From the inside.”

  I heard the frustration in his voice. I placed a hand on his arm and he startled from the snap of electricity. “Sorry,” I said and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Nothing appeared disturbed in the apartment. His computer had gone into sleep mode, but when our tech guy woke it up, or whatever, it was still on Facebook.”

  “How did he die?” I didn’t really want to know, but…

  “Suffocation.”

  “Oh. So not accidental or medical.” Having seen the event, I doubted it would be either of those, but I had hoped against hope.

  “No.”

  “None of his neighbors saw or heard anything?” I persisted in asking.

  “No.” Jacob’s eyes narrowed at me.

  Catherine’s gaze flicked between us again, probably trying to identify why Jacob was suddenly treating me like a suspect. I kind of wanted to know that too. Or maybe he just didn’t want civilians acting like armchair detectives. I supposed it didn’t really matter. As long as the killer was found.

  “I’ll let you get back to it, then,” I spoke into the silence. As I turned, Jacob touched my shoulder.

  “What’s your phone number?”

  My eyes widened, and he finally smiled.

  “In case I have any additional questions,” he clarified and a blush burned across my alabaster skin. His smile broadened, and I broke eye contact.

  “Of course.” I spelled my name for him and provided the requested number. I risked eye contact again before leaving and there was something unreadable in his eyes. He removed a card from his wallet, scribbled on it, and handed it to me.

  “My cell is on there too. Text me if you have any additional information.” Catherine tilted her head inquisitively at this statement but said nothing. Maybe Jacob didn’t usually give out his cellphone number?

  “It was nice meeting you,” I stated by rote. “I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

  “It was nice meeting you too,” he replied.

  I hugged Catherine goodbye, we promised to talk soon, and I walked away. I felt Jacob’s eyes on me until I passed into the darkness beyond the streetlights and reached my car. Once inside, a whoosh of air escaped. What on earth was happening to me? It must be the emotions of the evening, I decided, and headed home to replenish my energy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ten minutes later, I was through the gated entrance to my subdivision in The Lakes and pulling into my garage. When people thought of Las Vegas, naturally they thought of the desert, but I needed to live near water and so I did. It was a manmade series of lakes smack in the middle of the Valley. My oasis in the desert. Kinda looked like California, but more affordable.

  I breathed deep once I’d entered my home and locked the door behind me. I was more drained than I thought. I fought dizziness and fatigue, stripped off my jeans and tank top, and crossed to the sliding glass doors that opened onto my backyard. I paused beside my pool, debating whether to dive in here, or slip into the lake. Some people made fun of its unnatural colors, but although manmade, it was an actual lake. With fish, turtles, and ducks even.

  I walked down the stone stairs to my wooden dock, and slid into the cool water. I dropped below the surface and allowed the water to swaddle me. I could breathe underwater, so I sunk to the bottom.

  Fish approached me and I reached out my hands, fingers touching their scaly sides. They knew I belonged, despite looking like the humans they saw through the top of the water. I closed my eyes, my energy store rising.

  Air bubbles seeped out of my lungs as I laughed at two fish darting at each other, almost like they were playing a game for my benefit. Showing off. I added my own hand to the play, moving it between them, and soon I’d been accepted as part of it. They moved up to and around my hand, sometimes riding the waves my hand created when I fluttered my fingers. I needed this.

  Oh, and I was not a mermaid, though sometimes mythology recorded my kind as such. I was a nixie or naiad, otherwise known as a water spirit. And, although I was long-lived, I was not immortal. Unfortunately. Because how cool would that be?

  Once replenished, I floated to the surface. I peered through the prism at the top of the water, making sure nobody was watching. My neighbors have caught me skinny dipping in my pool, but I’d rather not draw attention coming out of the lake. One, we weren’t allowed to swim in the water. And, two, it probably looked weird that I’d been underwater for over thirty minutes.

  The houses on either side of mine remained dark. I stood motionless on my dock, the water evaporating off me. I resumed moving and my skin was dry by the time I reached the sliding glass door. I entered, staring with longing back where I came. How the water called to me. It might seem strange that a water spirit would live in a desert, but Vegas had its upside. Namely the Paranormal Talent Agency. I chuckled at the nickname for Catherine’s office and headed upstairs to take a shower; my lake was not a natural body of water, I wasn’t taking the risk of picking up any bacteria!

  Later, back at my computer, I decided to look into the Los Angeles murder that Facebook user mentioned. I found one local article, and the few details provided were similar enough to what happened to Chad that my skin crawled. I made a few notes and noticing that it was now after midnight, decided to follow up on it in the morning.

  Nightmares plagued my sleep. I watched Chad die over and over again. And even though I didn’t see it, my mind created the image of Chad suffocating. I watched him struggle to find breath he never would, petechial hemorrhaging around his eyes, lips turning blue. The light left his eyes as his body, starved of oxygen, lost to the unseen force. The firecracker noise surrounded me in these dreams, taunting me with its familiarity.

  The next morning, I woke completely unrested shortly after dawn. Ugh. I was an 8-or-9-hours-of-sleep per night being; getting under six would make for a miserable day. Then I reminded myself that a young man lost his life, sobering my thoughts. Time to see what I could learn. I briefly considered reaching out to Jacob, but after the way he looked at me like a suspect, I decided to try finding something to bring him. Like I was an armchair detective. Exactly what I imagined he would not appreciate, I admitted to myself.

  I shrugged and turned on the television to the local news. There was a brief mention of Chad’s murder, but nothing new in it. I answered business emails while I had coffee and banana bread; the death of the film’s star would impact the release of my movie and there would be other fallout. Time to see what was going to happen.

  A couple of hours later, I heard the start of my favorite local morning show, Entertainment Daily. Elizabeth Addison, the normally perky brunette co-host, sounded grim as she announced the show’s top story. Usually they go for upbeat and, of course, I watched it because I was in the e
ntertainment biz.

  I craned my head around my computer to see the screen.

  “Last night, a rising actor, on the cusp of stardom, was brutally murdered in his apartment,” she began, voice breathy yet sincere. She recapped what I already knew, but then said, “This is the second death under these circumstances. Two weeks ago, an actor in Los Angeles was found dead in his apartment, also following a social media live video. Police there are as stumped as our local Metro PD. Could these two be connected?”

  The image cut to Jacob Dawson, glaring into the camera as he growled “No comment” at Elizabeth.

  “That video was taken last night outside Chad’s apartment complex. Police are being tight-lipped about any information they may or may not have thus far in both of these cases. We’ll keep you updated.”

  I sat back in my wicker chair. Damn. Elizabeth was going hard-core. She seemed pretty interested in these cases. I wondered what else she might know that she wasn’t revealing.

  *****

  An hour later, I stood in the lobby of the station waiting for the receptionist on the other side of the glass to let Elizabeth Addison know that Mia Fynn would like to see her. “Please tell her I’m the producer on the movie Chad Johnson shot right before his untimely death.” I could tell the newscaster was hungry for information on that story. If anything would get her to see me, I was certain that was it.

  Sure enough, the receptionist smiled at me and said, “Ms. Addison will be out shortly.”

  “Thank you,” I responded and sat on the uncomfortable blue plastic chairs in the lobby, leaning my laptop bag against my leg. I glanced around at the headshots of the on-air talent while I waited. Not five minutes later, toothy smile wide, short curly brown hair perfectly coifed, Elizabeth Addison opened the locked door and strode toward me, hand outstretched. If she was taken aback by my green hair, she masked it.

  “I’m Liz Addison,” she said without preamble. “You must be Mia Fynn?”

  I nodded and shook her hand. Strong grip.