“Okay, Graham,” I forced myself to say, aiming for a light tone. “You’ve got me here. Are you going to tell me the big emergency or do I have to tickle it out of you?”
I was trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. Serious as a heart attack, he planted both his hands on the conference room table and pinned me with that intense stare. “Madame Zelda.”
I blinked, startled by the sudden change in topic. Whatever I’d expected him to say, it was not that. “What about her?”
“She’s your psychic.”
“Yes.”
“She conducts business out of your shop.”
“Yes,” I repeated. “Look, what is this about—”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I don’t know. About a week ago? She hasn’t been in.”
He processed this information for a moment. “You didn’t report her missing?”
“She has a tendency to disappear. She’s sort of flighty. It isn’t entirely abnormal for her to fall off the face of the earth, then wander back in a few days later like nothing happened.” I paused, narrowing my eyes at him. “Why? What does Zelda have to do with you?”
“I met with a new client yesterday morning. Mickey O'Banion.”
Mickey!
The guy from the dumpsters. It had to be him. Statistically speaking, it was borderline impossible that there were two separate Mickeys running around Salem, looking for my psychic. I tried my best to hide my reaction to this realization, keeping my expression as blank as humanly possible.
“That name mean something to you?”
“No,” I lied immediately. “Should it?”
“You’ve never heard of the O’Banions?”
I thought about this for half a second, then felt my eyes grow wide. “O’Banion as in…thoseO’Banions? The ones who own that seedy bar by the bridge?”
Graham nodded stiffly.
There weren’t many places Aunt Colette told me were off limits when I was a kid. The Banshee was one of them. It wasn’t until I reached adulthood and learned the bar was home base for the O’Banion family — who reputedly had ties,deepties, to the Irish mafia scene, ties that hadn’t really been cut, even when their notorious uncle Whitey went to prison and the Winter Hill gang was wiped off the streets of Boston — that I figured out why she was dead-set against me getting anywhere near it. In all my time in Salem, I’d never stepped so much as a toe inside The Banshee, and had no plans to change that policy anytime soon.
“Guessing you’ve heard the rumors about that family, seeing as you’ve gone white as a sheet,” Graham said bluntly.
It was a good guess.
“Mickey O’Banion came to me yesterday,” Graham continued. “Usually, they like to do their own dirty work. Handle things in house. But they’ve been hitting roadblocks in their own search and asked for my help. Apparently, someone has been stealing O'Banion heirlooms and selling them to the highest bidder. Someone with access to his ailing mother, who makes regular visits to the home, who has a history of criminal activity…” He paused. “Were you aware your psychic has a criminal record?”
“Um. No?”
“You didn’t think it wise to run a CORI check on someone in your employ?”
Goddess, not this again.
“She’s notin my employ. She just uses my space. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship! Sort of like a sea anemone and a cl—” I stopped short at the dark look on his face, which told me in no uncertain terms that he was not interested in a marine biology lesson. Heaving a martyred sigh, I asked, “You really think Madame Zeldais conning old ladies out of their costume jewelry?”
Graham’s jaw clenched. “An emerald the size of a golfball is no worthless bauble. Mickey estimates up to half a million dollars of priceless items are gone.”
I paled. “Half a million dollars?”
“Madame Zelda — given name Jennifer H. Custer — was arrested twelve years ago for passing bad checks, and again six years ago for grand larceny. Served four years in Rhode Island before she moved here.” He crossed both arms over his chest, his corded muscles apparent even through his thick sweater. “Which you would know if you’d done even the slightest bit of research about the people you surround yourself with. How can you be so careless with your safety?”