The phone rudely interrupted my eavesdropping again, and I begrudgingly shuffled into my office to answer it. “JGH Investigations, how can I help you?”
A sultry female voice came through the phone. “I know what happened to Scott Walker.”
I checked the caller ID, but it was listed as a private number. “Who is this?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“What exactly do you know?”
“I know that he’s hanging between life and death because of what they did to him. There were several attackers. Did you know that?”
I started to say yes, then reconsidered. I didn’t want to give out any information from the case to someone I didn’t trust. I grabbed my detective notebook, flipped it open, and grabbed a pen. “Do you know the names of these several attackers?”
“It’s complicated, I’m afraid.”
Suspicion threaded through me. “Why?”
“To be frank, information isn’t free.”
My fingers tightened on my pen. “Did you even witness the attack?”
“Yes, of course. I saw it as clear as day in my mind.”
“In . . . your mind?”
“Yes, I’m psychic. Madame Mesmura at your service.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed at my forehead, accidentally swiping myself with the tip of the pen. That was going to leave a streak. “Thanks for calling, but we’re not interested in your services. Have a nice day.”
“But I’ll give you a discount!” she shouted through the phone before I dropped the receiver back into its cradle.
Why were there always people trying to profit off someone else’s tragedy? Psychics and fortune tellers. I didn’t doubt that some of them had unusual abilities. My concern was where that ability came from—because it wasn’t from God.
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