Three O'Clock Séance

Chapter 2

2

Rebecca changed into a pale mauve skirt, a black pullover with a scoop neckline, and black heels with a sexy ankle strap. She removed the pony tail band to free her long blond hair, added a little jewelry, a little make-up, a splash of perfume, and she was done.

Eat your heart out, Amalfi.

The way Richie eyed her as she walked into the living room, he may have been doing just that. “You clean up real good, Inspector.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll let me know if I still have dirt on my face or hayseeds between my teeth.”

He chuckled as they left the apartment.

She sat in the passenger seat of his Porsche 911 Turbo. The light scent of his after shave reminded her of other times she’d been in his car, times she preferred to forget.

Richie told her a bit more as he drove across town. Sandor Geller was the psychic’s name. Rebecca wondered if he was any relation to Yuri Geller who people had believed could bend spoons with his mind until it was shown that magicians could do everything Geller did. But Yuri Geller continued to insist he was legit, and to this day had a large, loyal following with books and television shows. Sandor may have decided to use the name since many people already knew it. Or, he may have been born with it.

In the past, Rebecca had observed that Richie had a good sense about people, what some might call intuition, while she felt about as intuitive as a tsetse fly. He clearly believed something strange was going on with this so-called psychic wannabe, and logic told her he might be right.

The building where the event would take place was large enough to be impressive, but nowhere near the size of the downtown halls that psychics such as John Edward, James Van Praagh, Rosemary Altea, Sylvia Browne, or George Anderson might have needed for their sell-out crowds.

Although Rebecca would never in a million years admit it to Richie or anyone else, she was familiar with those people. She first became interested in paranormal phenomena while in high school. She even went to a ghost hunt on Halloween at the enormous, spooky Old Penitentiary back home in Boise. They did a few things to entertain the customers, but not one ghost appeared. She had watched The Amityville Horror any number of times, and read everything she could get her hands on about Ed and Lorraine Warren, demonologists who were involved in that and a number of other cases.

But by the time a movie involving the Warrens, The Conjuring, came out, Rebecca was already a cop. The evil and demonic acts she saw in real life made Hollywood’s view of them child’s play by comparison. With her job, any interest in psychic phenomena, demons, and spirits had vanished along with her innocence.

The theater probably held some seven or eight hundred people in lightly padded fold-down seats and was quickly filling up. Richie found places for them in the middle of the audience. He didn’t want to be too far back and miss anything.

Before the show began, a skinny, pale young man, his brown hair pulled into a man-bun, came onto the stage. He introduced himself as “Mr. Geller’s assistant, Lucian,” and then insisted everyone turn off their cell phones and not take pictures or make recordings. Next came a parade of people with stories of how Sandor Geller connected them with dead friends and loved ones.

Nothing like priming the pump, Rebecca thought.

Finally, the lights dimmed, a hush fell over the audience, and as recorded music blared, Sandor Geller walked out on stage wearing a purple cape and silver turban with a jeweled pin holding a peacock feather sticking straight up from it. He strutted around the stage while most people cheered, and a few hooted and laughed.

“Is this a joke?” Rebecca asked. “Who would ever take this jerk seriously?”

“Keep watching,” Richie whispered.

“I am Sandor Geller,” the guy bellowed in a loud, deep voice. “Or …”

He removed the turban, the cape, and the tear-away tuxedo suit under it and tossed everything to his assistant, Lucian. Despite the gasps from some in the audience as he tore away his suit, he hadn’t turned the show into a Chippendale male stripper routine. Instead, Geller stood before them in scruffy jeans and a cream-colored shirt with a wide collar and baggy sleeves. He rolled back the sleeves, ran his fingers through his hair to fluff it, and then flung open his arms, saying in a normal voice, “You can call me Sandy.”

The audience roared its approval. Sandy held up a finger in a “one moment” gesture and took off his black dress shoes. Lucian ran out on stage and exchanged them for a worn pair of brown loafers. Sandy put on the loafers and heaved a loud sigh of relief. “Now I’m ready!” He gave a dimpled smile, to even more sustained applause. He looked about twenty years old, although Rebecca imagined he must be at least in his mid-thirties.

Women made up most of the audience, and “Sandy,” as opposed to “Sandor” looked pretty darn cute with rakish hair, twinkling blue eyes, and those deep dimples. Rebecca now understood a good part of his appeal.

He began with humorous stories about performances in Los Angeles, Denver, and the day before in Las Vegas, explaining that he toured those areas at least once each month to meet with his followers. He added how glad he was to be “home” now, implying that his San Francisco audience was far more sophisticated than the rubes elsewhere. And that, as a result, the evening they would spend together would be far more important and satisfying to all of them.

Next, he gave a quick description of his childhood, of growing up a loner with no friends because of his psychic gifts. He did it in a way that caused the audience to care about and connect with him. They laughed at some of the stories, and he brought many people to tears with others, such as when he spoke of being with his grandmother as she was dying, and how he witnessed his long-deceased grandfather appear at her bedside. He described her joy at seeing her husband again, how she was then no longer afraid to die, and let herself go. He watched her spirit walk with her husband to the “other side.”

Despite herself, Rebecca hung onto his every word. Although she’d had a youthful interest in psychic mediums, she’d never gone to one of their performances—the cost of them being a big factor. She grew up on a farm where money was in short supply.

Sandy abruptly stopped his ramblings in mid-sentence. “Oh, my God! Someone is here.”

The audience froze, waiting, listening.

Sandy put his hand to his forehead. “He refuses to wait, but says he needs to talk now. I’m hearing a name. It seems to start with a D. Or is it a B? P? The letter T, perhaps?”

She leaned towards Richie. “What’s this? Do spirits mumble or is ‘Sandy’ hard of hearing?”

Richie grinned. “The letters he should be hearing are P.O.S.”

She chuckled and poked his arm with her elbow.

In answer to Sandy’s question, several women waved their arms, stood up and shouted names like Debbie, Barbara, Pam, and Theresa.

Sandy studied them a moment, then in a hushed voice said, “He’s saying another name. Ch … Chuck, is it?” The women shook their heads. “Charles!” he cried.

“Yes,” one of the women called. “That’s my husband’s name.”

“Is he deceased?” Sandy asked.

“Yes, these past fifteen years.” A spotlight found the stout woman with short white hair who was answering. She blinked hard from its brightness as, in answer to Sandy’s questions, she said she was Barbara from Walnut Creek.

“Charles is here now, Barb. Oh, my. Was that his nickname for you? Barb?” Sandy asked, then, without waiting for her answer, said, “What would you like to say to him?”

Rebecca nearly tossed her cookies at the syrupy-sweet discourse that followed. Barbara, who was very shy, said little, but Sandy allowed himself to be the “vessel” through which Charles spoke. As Charles, his voice turned thin and slightly raspy, and his shoulders seemed to hunch up, while his head sank a bit in the way of an older man. “Charles” told how much he loved and missed Barbara. He spoke of her as a young, beautiful bride, of their vacations together, her wonderful cooking, and most of all, the way they had loved and made love. Somehow, Rebecca was sure Barbara and Charles didn’t have the passionate s*x life Sandy conjured up, but “Barb” wasn’t about to admit it before all those people. The woman put her hands to her cheeks and blushed bright red, but her gaze was filled with complete love … for Sandy.

Rebecca now understood the loose cream-colored shirt and longish hair. He looked like Lord Byron or the hero of some historical romance novel.

She could hardly suppress a giggle, but most of the audience was completely enthralled, many in tears, and even more with expressions of undying adoration, just like Barbara.

“He’s gone now,” Sandy whispered, then dropped to his knees with a face so filled with sadness he looked like part of a medieval painting of the crucifixion.

Rebecca couldn’t stop a derisive snort, and quickly put her hand to her nose, pretending it was a cough as murder flashed in the eyes of the women seated near her—her murder.

Barbara, who was now fully engulfed in tears, worked her way to the aisle, wiping her cheeks and nose with her hands as she went. Sandy’s bodyguards acted as if they were going to try to stop her, but the blatantly compassionate Sandy insisted they let her pass and that she be allowed to approach him, a gesture to make the audience love him even more, no doubt. He stood as she ran into his arms, and they hugged. Rebecca suspected “Barb” was thinking more about Sandy than poor dead Charles.

Sandy quickly sent her back to her seat.

The evening went on that way, although later encounters weren’t nearly as dramatic. Still, Rebecca knew the majority of the audience believed he was truly psychic. He had a way of working the crowd that, to a skeptic like Rebecca, came across as plastic, phony, and with all the subtlety of a hand grenade. Yet, no one in attendance seemed to notice.

He said things like “I see a body of water. Does that mean anything to anyone?”

Rebecca would have loved to point out that since they were in San Francisco, with water on three sides, it certainly should have meant something.

“Do you have a cat? A dog?” Someone in any large audience could usually answer affirmatively to that one. But he also had many misses, and, to help keep them hidden, he spoke so quickly it was like a multiple-choice exam with untold possible answers. Tossing out a number of possibilities meant at least one would solicit a “Yes!”

Sandy would then zero in on that “yes” and ask that person to stand. He then continued with questions or statements, rapid-fire, until he hit something that would make the person say “Yes!” again.

Sometimes, nothing seemed to work and the person standing kept shaking his or her head. Before he allowed that to go on very long, Sandy would notice someone else in the audience nodding, and immediately swivel around to focus all his attention on the new person, abandoning the earlier one, who would be left there feeling foolish, and eventually sit down. A loser.

He ended the evening with a tear-jerking connection with someone who had recently lost a beloved cat. Thank God, Rebecca thought, Sandy didn’t meow for her.

Then, exactly one hour after he stepped onto the stage, his performance was over.

“That’s it?” Rebecca asked. “Seventy-five bucks each for that B.S.?”

“You got it,” Richie said. “And now we can buy Sandy’s book and the T-shirt. And we can become Sandoristas for only $6.99 a month.”

“You sound like an infomercial.”

“Well, you do get the newsletter if you sign up,” he chided.

“Such a deal!” Rebecca quipped. But then, as they walked through the lobby where people were buying the Sandorista bling, her smile vanished. “Wait a minute. That Sandorista name sounds familiar.”

“It sounds like Sandinistas, but—”

“That’s it!” she said.

“I know, but—”

“No, no. Let’s get out of here.” They left the theater and headed towards Richie’s car when Rebecca continued. “The name came up in a case Sutter and I worked a while back.”

He gave her a smug look. “If you and Sutter were involved, that means someone was dead, just as I was saying.”

“Saying ‘I told you so’ is not an attractive trait,” she said. “Besides, it could be nothing.”

“Or something. Is it a case you cleared, or is it still open?”

“I can’t remember which one it was. I think it was a throwaway line, something we saw and dismissed, but I’m just not sure.”

“Probably still open, then. We should check it out.”

“We?” She lifted her eyebrows.

“Sure. I’ve already gotten you this far,” he said.

“This far? I haven’t actually said I was interested, you know.”

Rebecca slowed her steps as she noticed an attractive woman in a green coat with a fur collar, her auburn hair cut in a shiny smooth chin-length bob, leaning against Richie’s car smoking a cigarette. When the woman saw the two of them, her eyes went to Richie. She dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk and stepped on it. Then walked away.

“Was she waiting for you?” Rebecca asked as they continued to his car.

Richie shook his head. “I think she was just someone having a smoke. Anyway, now I see the future.”

“You do?”

“It has you and me, together, working on the cold case you were talking about. Time for a trip to Homicide.”

She shook her head at the thought of allowing him to work a cold case with her. Sandy wasn’t the only one around who was delusional.