Killing Red by Henry Perez Page A

feature about psychics who help the police solve crimes and she was quoted in the story. Her name was Louise.”
    Andrews had cupped the speaker and was talking to someone in his office. Chapa was too tired to repeat himself and planned to sign off as soon as his friend turned his attention back to him.
    “You’re right, Al. Louise Jones, she worked out of a small storefront in downtown St. Charles.”
    Chapa had momentarily forgotten how well Andrews could multitask while in the middle of anything. One of Andrews’ former partners used to joke that the agent had shut down a counterfeiting ring, arrested two street gang leaders, and shown a jaywalker the error of his ways all while helping his wife deliver their second child.
    He thanked Andrews and reached for the phone book, wondering if there was a listing for Psychics.
    “Don’t go and do anything stupid,” Andrews said, then signed off.
    Chapa considered what a copycat might look like. He’d be a very private, but outwardly normal man. That was the secret to survival for predators. It had been one of the reasons Grubb was so difficult to catch. If a killer was out there, Chapa knew he would be no more distinct or noteworthy than the guy in the third cubicle down the hall who tends to keep to himself. The next person in line at the hardware store. That neighbor who’s spending another weekend working in his basement.
    If he was out there, Chapa was determined to get between the killer and Annie Sykes. But before he could go forward, Chapa knew he’d have to take another step back.

CHAPTER 14
     
     
    The receding tread on the Toyota’s tires swallowed up pieces of white gravel then spit them out as Chapa pulled through the circular drive, and parked a few feet beyond the front door. The property rested in a quiet and established neighborhood at the far west end of Chicago’s extended suburbs.
    It was one of those old large Midwestern houses that are usually filled with memories and secrets in equal measure. The two-story light blue structure had seen better days. Paint was beginning to flake off in spots, and an effort had been made to cover up the bare areas by slapping on a syrup-thick coat.
    Louise Jones had long ago given up her storefront business, and instead performed readings in her home by appointment only. She’d told Chapa on the phone that she could squeeze him in that morning, though he got the sense there were many more openings than clients. He had told her he was a reporter doing a story on local businesses.
    There was some truth to that, not much, but some. Chapa had decided that even if Grubb’s threat to Annie Sykes didn’t amount to anything, he would still get a story out of all this to run on the day of the execution.
    “You look like a man with a lot on his mind.”
    Not bad for a woman her age, probably late fifties, Chapa figured, and he could easily imagine her having been quite attractive once.
    “Madam Eva welcomes you to her domain,” she said, ushering Chapa into a large but cluttered foyer.
    Looking down a long hallway that led to the back of the house, Chapa thought the place appeared to have more than its share of dark corners. You could hide just about anything in those. A family secret, a broken heart, a shattered past. Plants obscured the front of each window, and the amount of furniture in the room could have filled a small apartment. The fresh smell of greenery was fighting a losing battle with the woman’s perfume.
    “When did you start going by Madam Eva?”
    She frowned in a way that suggested his question was out of bounds, and slowly extended an arm in the direction of a parlor at the side of the house. The small room was even more cramped than the foyer. The few strands of light that managed to make their way in had to sneak under a pair of open but partially blocked windows. Every once in a while a fist of wind punched through the thick green curtains and sunlight would momentarily lick the dark wood