Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

a narrow face, somewhat dark and slightly pensive; short hair, cute moustache. A thoroughly decent sort.
    So imagine my surprise when he said, “God, I’d love to get my hands on you.” And turned immediately scarlet.
    “What?”
    “Oh God, I blurted again. I’m going to lose another job if I don’t stop that. I meant, I can see your back hurts from those high heels you’re wearing. I just thought… I thought I could help you.”
    “Are you a body worker or something?”
    “An RN, actually. But that wasn’t what I meant. I know a little about pressure points.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a come-on or anything.”
    Of course not. “Look, a legal problem has come up. I wonder if you can tell me what time Chris arrived and left last night.”
    “I don’t think I should answer questions like that without talking to Chris. I mean, you might not be her lawyer— maybe you’re a jealous wife who thinks she’s dallying with your husband. You seem like a very nice person, but what if—”
    I put up a hand. “I understand. Look, I’ll have her phone you if it becomes important.”
    He breathed in, obviously relieved. “Thanks for understanding. Listen, if you want— I really could work on your back. You want to turn around a minute?”
    I got out of there as fast as I could. But I kicked off those shoes the minute I was in my car. I’d found them on a half-price sale and bought them even though they didn’t fit right. My back did hurt, but I wouldn’t have thought it was so obvious. I wondered if I was developing bad posture.
    And once again I wondered what sort of rat’s nest Chris had gotten herself into. Spiffed up in a suit, Shensky might at least look acceptable to a jury, but there was that habit he had of “blurting.” What was his problem? And more to the point, what was Chris doing with a group called Raiders of the Lost Art?
    Tanesha Johnson wasn’t about to tell me. When I finally found her office— after a few fits, starts, and long conversations with the guard— I was delighted to see a well-groomed young black woman, decked out in full makeup, sporting a fresh manicure, with a nameplate on her desk saying she was my quarry. Now this one I could take to court. I handed her my card. “Ms. Johnson? I’m Rebecca Schwartz. I’m here about Chris Nicholson from Raiders of the Lost Art.…”
    Her neck swiveled, and as there were two other people in the reception room over which she presided, her voice dropped to a hiss. “What the hell do you mean coming here like this?”
    Taken aback, I said, “A legal problem has come up and I had a question— ”
    “Lady, you’re jeopardizing my job, do you know that?”
    So that was number four. I could hardly wait for lunch, and not because I was hungry. But I would have waited a week to eat if it meant not seeing the wreck of my confident, competent law partner. She was wearing jeans and a pair of shades, which she removed to show a face splotchy with crying; she was shaking. “Rebecca, I think they’re going to arrest me.”

Chapter Three
    We’d met at a dim sum place, her favorite, and to get her calmed down, I resorted to my mother’s tricks, the infamous behavior of the females of my tribe. I begged her to eat; I cajoled her with dainty morsels. She was so distracted, trying to get something down to get me off her back that she forgot to cry for a while.
    And finally I had the nerve to open the subject. “So about the secret life.”
    She looked as if I’d kicked her. For a full thirty seconds she stared at me full in the face, brow furrowed. At the time I thought she was furious, but in retrospect I realized she’d been trying to figure out what on earth to say. The things that whizzed through my head ran the gamut from gunrunning to black magic— with a bias, owing to the name of the group and Moonblood’s hostility, toward the latter.
    In the end she opted for simplicity, a two-word statement that said it all— and left me thoroughly puzzled: “I’m psychic.”
    I almost laughed I was so relieved. How wonderful that she wasn’t running a child-stealing ring! “Oh, is that all.”
    “All? What do you mean ‘all’? Rebecca, have you forgotten you think psychics are bunk? I’m not a credible person anymore.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that— a lifetime of rationality. Gone. Wiped out.” I didn’t know if she meant mine or hers. Mine was ebbing fast. Okay, it was gone by the time I grasped what she’d