Cold Case--A Jeff Resnick Mystery by L.L. Bartlett Page A

start, Mr.
Resnick?”
    “ Call me Jeff. How about Eric’s
room?”
    A sixty-watt bulb illuminated the gloom as
the four of us trudged down a narrow hallway. Paula opened the door
to a small bedroom, flipped a light switch, and ushered us in.
“It’s just the way he left it.”
    I doubted that, since the bed was made and
all the toys and games were neatly stacked on shelves under the
room’s only window—not a speck of dust. A race car bedspread and
matching drapes gave a clue to the boy’s chief interest—so did the
scores of dented, paint-scraped cars and trucks. I picked up a
purple-and-black dune buggy, sensing a trace of the boy’s aura.
He’d been a rambunctious kid, with the beginnings of a smart
mouth.
    “ He was a very lively
child.”
    “ He’s all boy, that’s for sure,” his
mother said proudly.
    She hadn’t noticed I’d used the past tense.
Either that or she was in deep denial. I’d known little Eric was
dead the moment I entered the apartment.
    I gave her a half-hearted smile, replaced the
toy on the shelf. There wasn’t much else to see. I shouldered my
way past the others and wandered back to the living room. They
tried not to bump into each other as they followed.
    A four-foot poster of Eric’s smiling face
dominated the west wall. He’d been small for his age, cute, with
sandy hair and a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his
nose.
    An image flashed through my mind: a child’s
hand reaching for a glass.
    I hitched in a breath, grateful my back was
to Dr. Marsh. A mix of powerful emotions erupted—as though my
presence had ignited an emotional powder keg. Like repelling
magnets, guilt and relief waged a war, practically raining from the
walls and ceiling.
    Composing myself, I turned, a disquieting
depression settling over me.
    “ Ms. Devlin—”
    She stepped forward. “Call me Paula.”
    “ Paula. Did Dr. Alpert tell you how
this works?”
    “ He said you absorb emotions, interpret
them, and that sometimes you get knowledge.”
    “ That’s right.” More or less. “There’s
a lot of background emotion here. May I hold your hand for a
moment? I need to see if it’s coming from you, or if it’s resident
in the building.”
    Without hesitation, she held out her hand,
her expression full of hope. And that’s what I got from her: Hope,
desperation, and deep despair. She loved that little boy, heart and
soul. And there was suspicion, too, but not of me.
    I released her hand, let out the breath I
hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
    “ Paula, ever heard the expression about
a person taking up all the air in the room?” Her brows puckered in
confusion. “You’re broadcasting so many emotions I can’t sort them
out. I know you want to stay, but I can’t do what I have to if
you’re here.”
    “ But he’s my son,” she
protested.
    Dr. Marsh stepped closer, placed a comforting
hand on Paula’s shoulder. “You want him to give you a true
reading.”
    I turned on the psychiatrist. “I’m not a
fortune teller, Dr. Marsh.”
    “ I didn’t mean to offend,” she said
without sincerity.
    “ I’ll go if you say so, Krista.” Paula
grabbed her windbreaker from the closet and headed for the door.
Once she was gone, my anxiety eased, and I no longer needed to play
diplomat.
    “ What’re you getting?” Richard
asked.
    “ The kid’s dead—been dead since day
one. He wasn’t frightened either, not until the very last
minute.”
    “ You’re talking murder,” Richard said.
“Not Paula.”
    “ No. I’m sure of that.”
    Dr. Marsh eyed me critically, brows arched,
voice coolly professional. “Are you well acquainted with sensing
death, Mr. Resnick?”
    “ More than I’d like.” I glanced at
Richard. “What’s this about a pervert in the
neighborhood?”
    His eyes narrowed. “It hasn’t been reported
in the media, but Paula told me about the cops’ prime suspect. A
convicted pedophile lived three units down at the time the boy
disappeared. They’ve had